The Night of the Fever
by The Wild Wild Whovian
Summary: Jim and Artie, working together - separately. One of them eludes capture by the Bad Guys, but the other is not so lucky. Of course he knows his partner will come to his rescue once he realizes that he's missing. But that won't be for a few days yet, and in the meantime… Well, in the meantime, he's just not feeling very well… Updating M/W/F
1. One, afternoon

_Thanks to Cal Gal, Deana & and the kind-hearted folks in the Action Scenes Critique thread for graciously betaing. Any remaining mistakes are my own._

* * *

**One, afternoon ~~~**

Three days, three towns, and nothing. No leads, no clues. The only thing James West had gleaned so far was a sneaking suspicion that, whoever was behind all this, he had most of the locals in his back pocket - and that included far too many of the sheriffs and deputies that Jim had met.

And now with evening drawing on, Jim rode into the town of Belle Fleur. He hitched his big black stallion to the railing and gave the horse a fond pat before mounting the steps to the latest hotel. As he entered and crossed to the front desk to inquire for a room for the night, Jim could feel eyes following him. He signed in, accepted the key for Room 12, then headed upstairs to drop off his stuff. Moments later he emerged again to take care of settling his horse in at the livery stable - and that was when they jumped him.

Four men. There was hardly enough room in the corridor to accommodate them all. They leapt at him as soon as he opened the door. Instinctively, Jim slammed the door in their faces - for one of them, literally. When Jim threw the door open again, that one slowly slid to the floor, out cold.

As the remaining three tried to grab West, he sprang up, caught hold of the lintel above the doorway, then swung out, knocking them all to the floor.

One of the three bounded up again and tried to slug West, only to receive a hard left to the chin that sent him back to the floor. The next came in behind West and flung his arms around him in a massive bear hug, trying to wrestle him down. West reached over his head and grabbed his larger opponent around the head, flipping him over his shoulder and into a delicate hallway table, sending its vase and doily scattering.

The last man now closed with West, getting in a vicious punch to the solar plexus that sent West to one knee, gasping. With a laugh, the last man nodded to his two still-conscious companions. "We finish this," he said, pulling out a knife. The others followed suit and crowded after him, all three looming over Jim West.

West looked up at them, his eyes meeting each of the others' in turn. And then Jim took hold of the edge of the carpet runner and gave it a firm yank.

Men and knives went flying - and one knife, in descending, gashed its erstwhile wielder. Evidently that was enough for them. The three scrambled to their feet and scurried off, leaving the unconscious man behind.

Jim knelt at that man's side, took hold of his collar, then slapped him lightly across both cheeks till the fellow's eyes opened. He gave a gurgle on seeing himself in Jim West's clutches and tried to wriggle free. The appearance of West's revolver a moment later put an end to that.

"Now," said West. "I have some questions and I'm sure you know what they are. Talk."

The man's eyes darted about, but whether he was hoping for rescue or afraid of being overheard was not clear.

"Talk," Jim insisted, touching the muzzle of the gun to the assailant's ribs.

"Ah! Ah!" the fellow sputtered. "It… it is only, _m'sieur_, that, that you are the yankee. No one want the yankee here in the bayou! _Allez-vous en! _Go away!"

West regarded him coolly. "Right," he said. "And who put you up to this? Who sent out you and your buddies to be my welcoming committee, hmm?"

The captive gaped at him, not answering. But another voice spoke up.

"Why, _M'sieur _West, what make you think anyone put ol' Petitcharles _et ses amis _up to this? They's jes' a buncha _péquenauds _- y'know, good ole boys - runnin' on high spirits and mebbe a bit o' the liquid spirits too, _hein_?"

A man was walking down the corridor toward them - tall, wide, paunchy, with a star pinned to his vest. He looked at West's captive, said, "_Allez-vous en_," and jerked his head down the hall toward the stairs. The man clambered up, glanced once more at West, then skedaddled.

West rose smoothly to his feet and looked the newcomer in the eye. "You're the sheriff here?"

"That I am. Henri Boirot." He held out his hand. After another measured look, Jim holstered his gun and shook the hand.

"I'm surprised to see the sheriff patrolling the halls of the hotel," said Jim.

"Aw, I was in the lobby, jes' steppin' inside out of the sun, y'know, when _les _Romain brothers, they come peltin' down the stairs and one o' them bleedin'. So I mosey on up, take a look-see."

"And you know who I am."

"_Bien sûr, M'sieur _West! Everyone in the bayou is talkin' of the presence of the famous Secret Service agent! _Oui_, everyone is wonderin' why it is you have come, what it is you will find. _Hein_?" The sheriff leaned closer. "But me, I think you will find nothin', _M'sieur _West. Nothin' but bayou."

"And what lives in the bayou," West pointed out.

"_Vraiment_?" The sheriff laughed heartily. "_Mais, M'sieur _West! What lives in the bayou is the gator, _n'est-ce pas_? And anyone who stirs up the gator - ah, that one, he risks bein' bit, y'know."


	2. One, evening

**One, evening ~~~**

It was suppertime when _le colonel _and his men came stomping in, noisy and putrid as always. "_Tiens_, Flambeau, where are you?" came _le colonel's _voice. "Spoon up the food, woman!"

I sighed. There went my peace and quiet! Gathering up the plates and utensils, I carried them out from the kitchen, looked about at all those louts, then picked one at random and demanded, "Louis-le-Maigre! Fetch in the pot!"

The skinny fellow did not move at first, but instead looked to _le colonel; _no one in this company did anything apart from _le colonel's _will. _Le colonel _himself ignored us both for nearly a minute. Then he turned a glare toward Louis-le-Maigre and, with darkening face, bellowed, "_Hein_, you have no ears? Do what she said! Fetch in the pot!" Only then did the little fellow scramble to obey.

While Louis carried in the cauldron, which was much too heavy for me to move when it was full, I went over to see what held _le colonel's _attention. Ah, but the cell door was open, and from within it I heard the rattle of chains, along with the boisterous laughter of _le colonel's _right-hand man, Guidreau. So, they have brought home a prisoner this day, I thought. They did so on occasion. Some they would hold for ransom; some few had wound up joining _le colonel's _band. The most - in the end, most of their prisoners they killed. Already I was feeling sorry for whatever poor soul they had taken today.

Guidreau and three others came out of the cell, laughing and proud of themselves. _Le colonel _locked the door behind them. Looking in through the little barred window on the cell door, he made mockery of the prisoner, saying, "So, _M'sieur _Le Grand, you do not look so very big now, _hein?" _He spat through the window into the cell, then turned and, finding me standing and watching him, roared at me, "So serve the food, Flambeau!"

Scowling, I complied, slopping the thick stew into the deep metal plates. "And bring us drink, woman!" _le colonel _cried. I fetched that as well, thinking, yes, _vous bêtes laides_, drink yourselves into a stupor; it will be quieter that way.

"_Bien_, Flambeau," said _le colonel _at last, "now you can eat."

"Oh, _merci beaucoup!" _I responded, knowing he would never hear the sarcasm in my voice. "But what of the prisoner?"

"Him? Share your food with him if you want him to eat!" This brought laughter from all sides. I looked into the pot; barely a plateful left. But I scooped it up anyway and said, "Unlock the door then."

Even more laughter. Still, _le colonel _let me in. Then locked me in. With a lamp in one hand and the plate balanced on top of the mug in the other, I had breezed on in through the door so the men would see that I did not care how much they laughed. But once the door was locked behind me and I got my first good look at the prisoner, then I stopped in my tracks.

They had beaten him. His head was bowed with a lump swelling above his ear. His lip was split and dribbling blood, and a livid bruise surrounded one eye. He was sitting on a pallet, his legs loosely folded under him, his two arms stretched up and out above his head and manacled to the wall.

My face, I know, darkened for a moment. But then, collecting myself, I continued toward him, softening my voice as I called out to him, "_Bonsoir, M'sieur _Le Grand. You would like some supper?"

The prisoner raised his head and glanced at me with his one good eye, then blinked and looked more closely. "I thought…" he said. Breaking off whatever he had started to say, he made an effort to smile, winced, then came out with, _"Bonsoir, ma'm'selle, comment allez-vous?"_

How was _I? _His question amazed me. I was far better off than he was, _certainement! _Ignoring the pleasantry, I knelt before the man, set down the lamp and the plate, then lifted the mug to his mouth. He drank thirstily, flinching slightly because of the split in his lip. Again he smiled - or at least with half of his mouth - and said, _"Merci, ma'm'selle."_

I readied a spoonful of the stew for him, but before I could feed it to him, he asked of me, _"Comment vous appellez-vous?"_

"_Je m'appelle _Sarah," I replied, realizing belatedly that I had not introduced myself.

"Sarah," he repeated. "Then who is Flambeau?"

I frowned. "That too is me. It is for my red hair that they call me Flambeau. But I hate the name."

"Oh, _you _are Flambeau!" he exclaimed, sounding quite surprised. "You must forgive me, _Ma'm'selle_ Sarah. The voice I heard outside, the voice of Flambeau, conjured up in my mind the picture of a much older woman. But you, you are quite a bit younger than I expected, _n'est-ce pas?" _Putting a twinkle into his one good eye, he added, "The sight of you had me wondering if perhaps Flambeau was your mother."

"I have no mother," I said very shortly. "Do you wish to eat? The food will soon be cold."

"_Ah, oui oui, s'il vous plaît! _And what have you prepared for our supper, _Ma'm'selle _Sarah?"

I shrugged. "Stew."

I saw, at my answer, a brief look almost of pain fly across his face. But then he gave a small laugh, said, "Sounds, uh, wonderful," and he accepted a spoonful. But when I tried to feed him the next spoonful as well, he shook his head. "_Non, ma'm'selle. _After you."

I paused. _"M'sieur?"_

That one brown eye regarded me somberly. "I overheard, _Ma'm'selle _Sarah. For me to eat, it must come from your share of the dinner." And with again a twinkle in his eye, he added, "And it is always so delightful to dine with such a charming young lady!"

I put up a hand and felt his forehead. "_M'sieur? _Have you a fever?"

"_Mais non, ma'm'selle. _Just trying to make the best of a bad situation."

Wondering if the beating had addled the poor man's brain, I ate a spoonful, then gave him the next. As I took my turn again, he smiled at me and said, "Tell me, _Ma'm'selle _Sarah, how is it that I find such a rose here amongst these brambles?"

Definitely addled, I decided. _"M'sieur?" _I asked. "What rose? What brambles?"

"Why, you are the rose and these rough men are the brambles," he replied.

What on earth was he talking about? Very slowly and patiently, I said to him, "_Mais non, m'sieur. _I am not Rose. Remember? My name is Sarah."

And now he laughed. "My, but aren't you the literal one!" he exclaimed. Then, with a bow of his head, he said, _"Pardonnez-moi, ma'm'selle. _I was using figurative language."

"Ah, that explains it," I replied. _"Je regrete, m'sieur, _but the only languages I have are English and French."

"Figurative language isn't…" he began, then instead said, "Never mind. To put it in English, I was trying to ask how such a lovely young lady as yourself came to be here among these rough men."

"Oh. That is what you were asking?"

"Yes."

"Hmm," I commented as I fed him some more stew, "but that is a long way around to ask a simple question." With a shrug, I explained, "I have always been here. As far back as I can remember."

"But you are not related to any of these men, I think."

I paused with the spoon almost to my mouth. Giving him a very sharp look, I asked, "_Tiens! _How do you know that?"

"Why, you don't look a bit…" He stopped and regarded me for a long moment, then smiled at me, that twinkle coming up again in his eye. He began speaking again, his voice now deep and rich and warm. "Your hair is the flame of a beautiful sunset. Your eyes are sparkling emeralds. Your skin is smooth and pale as the finest of cream. Altogether, _Ma'm'selle _Sarah, you are as comely a colleen as ever trod the Auld Sod of the Emerald Isle."

I stared at the man for a very long time. _"Qu'est-ce que c'est?" _I asked him, adding suspiciously, "Was that more of that figurative language?"

He sighed and admitted, "I'm afraid so, _ma'm'selle_. I forgot myself. _Pardonnez-moi_."

"And what is that Emerald Isle you mentioned? I have never heard of such a thing."

"Ireland," he replied. "It's a country very far from these bayous of Louisiana. A beautiful green island of a country. In Ireland there are many people who have hair as red as yours, and eyes as green as yours, and skin as fair as yours. And a colleen is an Irish girl. Obviously, _ma'm'selle_, you must come from Ireland - either you, or your people before you."

I stared at the prisoner. What? What was he saying? "You… you know where I am from?" I hissed at him, unable to believe this.

"Why, yes. I believe I do." He looked at me, puzzled. "Is something wrong?"

"_Tiens!" _I exclaimed. I supposed I must have looked quite ferocious at that moment. "There… there is a tune. A song," I told him. "I hear it in my dreams. I think perhaps my mother must have sung it to me when I was very small. Is… is this Irish?" Slowly, unsteadily, I hummed it for him.

"Oh yes, that definitely is Irish," he replied, then took up the tune from me and sang softly:

"_In Dublin's fair city,  
Where the girls are so pretty,  
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone…"_

There was a clang as I dropped the spoon into the nearly empty plate. "Molly! I… I think…" I pressed my hands on either side of my head. Staring at him wide-eyed, I blurted out, "All my life I have wondered, _m'sieur_, who I am and why I am here in this place. I have never felt I belong here, but why I do not know. And you! You figure it out in only a few minutes! Oh, I could kiss you!"

"Really?" He smiled as broadly as his injured lip would allow, his bright brown eye sparkling at me as with a chuckle he proclaimed, "Oh, but I certainly enjoy kisses!"

_Idiote! _I scolded myself. Why had I said that? _Le colonel _had always told me never to let any of the men so much as touch me; indeed, he had taught me how to defend myself should any man be fool enough not to take No for an answer. And here I had just offered a kiss to a stranger!

I think my dismay must have shone plainly on my face, for the prisoner's smile softened. "Don't worry, Sarah, I won't insist on that kiss. I do love women, but you, you're still a girl, aren't you?"

I shrugged mutely as he tipped his head and continued, "_Vous savez _- or should I phrase it, _tu sais? _- it's been puzzling me all along. As I told you before, when I first heard your voice out there with _le colonel _and his men, you sounded loud and rough, raucous, the match of the men. And so I expected you to be, oh, in your thirties at least, if not forties. But then you came in to feed me, and I found to my surprise that you were much younger than I expected. _Much _younger. And the longer we talk, the younger you seem. So that I wonder now: how old are you, Sarah? Fifteen? Sixteen?"

I spread my hands in a shrug. _"Je ne sais pas."_

"You don't know?" he said. "But how can you not know how old you are? Look. When is your birthday?"

Again I shrugged.

"And you don't know that either?" He leaned back and looked at me again, frowning slightly, thinking deeply. "Here you are," he said at last, "in a place where you are related to no one. No one keeps track of your birthday to wish you a happy one? No one cares for you? Neither family nor friends?" At my shrug of No, he added, _"Ah, c'est une grande mystère."_

I shook my head. "I never thought it strange," I said.

"I suppose not," he said. "Why would you? For you this is normal. You have nothing to compare your life with to know how unusual it is. However," he added, again with that lop-sided smile, "at least now, Sarah, you have a friend."

"_Qui?" _I asked. "Who do you mean? Yourself?"

He nodded affably.

"Hmm," I said, narrowing my eyes. _"…non."_

"_Excusez-moi? _You do not count me as your friend?"

"_Non," _I repeated. "Why should I? I barely know you. You are clever, _c'est vrai_, for you have unlocked to me the mystery of where I come from, or at least the beginning of it. But…" I shook my head. "I do not think you are being real with me. I think instead you are playing the games. All that you have been doing, _M'sieur _Le Grand, it is all a game. The _politesse_, the twinkling eye, the figurative language. Your aim is to win me over, to convince me you are my friend, all so that I will help you to get out of here. _N'est-ce pas?"_

With a chuckle and a shake of his head, he said to me, "Oh, but you are highly perceptive, _Ma'm'selle _Sarah!"

"You need only to have asked me," I said.

"Perhaps," said he. "But I wanted to see what sort of girl you were first. Supposing your heart had belonged to _le colonel _and his men?"

"Ha!"

"Then you are willing to help me?" And for the first time, I heard reality in his voice, no longer any games.

I shrugged. "Willing, _oui_. But what good is that? I do not see where I can be of much help to you. Still…" I added. For an idea had occurred to me.

He smiled, a shrewd look in that one brown eye. "Ah, what are you thinking now, Sarah? No, you don't have to answer me; you're thinking that if you help me escape, when I leave, you'd like me to take you away from here as well. Am I right?"

"_Oui_, I would like very much to leave here," I admitted. "You saw, when they brought you in, the fence around this house and yard?"

"Yes."

"I have never in my memory set foot outside that fence."

He gave a low whistle. "That is a very small world, Sarah. Tell me, if I were to take you away from here, where would you go?"

My face, I think, went blank for a second, until a bright idea struck me. "Ireland?"

That brought the twinkle again to his eye. "Oh, but that is a very long way from here. You have no idea how far."

"_M'sieur _Le Grand, for me, three steps outside that fence is a very long way." A sudden smile spread over his face when I said that. Looking at him sharply, I asked him "What did I say?"

"Oh, Sarah, you don't even know, do you?" Grinning cheerily at me, he said, "It's only that you just now used figurative language!"

"I did? But how could that be? I understood it."

"That, my dear, was your first step into a larger world."

"_Non," _I shook my head. "My first step into a larger world will happen when I finally set foot outside that fence."

He made a small snort and shook his head as well. "And there she goes, right back to literal again!" he told himself.

"But we are agreed?" I asked. "I help you; you help me?"

"_Ma'm'selle _Sarah," said the prisoner solemnly, "if you help me escape, I will indeed take you away from here when I go."

"And help me to get to Ireland?"

"Oh, well, I don't know about Ireland! But I ought to be able to help you find somewhere safe for you to stay." That one brown eye looked into mine. "Is that good enough?"

I considered, then nodded. _"D'accord."_

"Fine. I'd, uh, offer to shake hands on it, but that might be a bit difficult right now…"

I looked up at his hands, manacled as they were by that chain to rings driven into the wall. "Your hands look white."

"I haven't much feeling in them either," he said.

Setting aside the remnants of supper, I got to my feet and began to rub at his hands, massaging life back into them. Big hands they were, with long fingers. As I worked, the man leaned his head back against the wall, his eyes closed. "Is that helping?" I asked.

"It's all pins and needles at the moment," he replied, "but keep going."

I did so, until finally he stretched and wriggled his fingers for himself. "Oh, much better," he said. "_Merci beaucoup. _Ah… and could you perhaps do one more thing for me?"

"_Peut-être," _I said warily. "Perhaps. What is it you have in mind?"

"Wash my wounds for me?" he said wistfully.

"Oh, _mais certainement, M'sieur _Le Grand," I replied, adding, "Well… if _le colonel _permits." Rising, I said, _"Un moment, m'sieur. _I will be right back."

"I'll be waiting," he responded brightly.

I shook my head, wondering how the man could make jokes so! Crossing to the door, I called out to _le colonel_, explaining what I wanted to do. He stood beyond the door and regarded me in cold silence for such a long time that I thought surely he would refuse. But then he turned and bellowed for rags and a bucket of water to be brought.

"And a comb!" I added.

Soon the supplies were provided to me. As _le colonel _pulled the door shut to lock me in once more, I said, "And his arms. Release his arms."

_Le colonel _snorted. "You ask too much, Flambeau."

I lugged the bucket over, knelt again as before, dipped a rag into the water, and began with _M'sieur _Le Grand's lip. Once I had cleaned away the blood as best I could there, I progressed to his eye. Next came the knot over his ear, and here he directed me in probing the area with my fingers until he was at last satisfied that his skull was intact.

Producing the comb then, I dipped it in the water and set about arranging his hair. Such thick dark curls he had! I used my fingers instead of the comb to put right his hair over the knot itself. The rest I could use the comb, wetting it repeatedly so that his hair would, I hoped, dry the way I fixed it.

When I was done, I found that one lock of his hair insisted on falling forward over his forehead. I tried twice to smooth it back before he stopped me with, "Don't worry about that one. It does that."

Pocketing the comb, I nodded and said, "There, _m'sieur_. You look almost human again."

"_Merci," _he said. "But there is still one more thing."

"_Oui, m'sieur?"_

"They kicked me in the ribs, Sarah. Would you mind checking…"

"Which side, _m'sieur?"_

"Left."

I unbuttoned his shirt, pulled his undershirt loose as much as possible, then took a look. I flinched. "That is… very purple…"

As with the knot on his head, I followed his directions in probing the area to check for cracked or broken bones. I could see how much it pained him to be touched there and whispered to him, _"Je suis desolée, m'sieur. _I am hurting you."

"No, _Ma'm'selle _Sarah, you are helping me. They are the ones who hurt me. You, on the contrary, are an angel."

The key turned in the lock then and the door slammed open. "Flambeau!" _le colonel _bellowed from the doorway. "You are finished now. Get out!"

Eyes blazing, I leapt to my feet and bellowed right back, "I will be finished when I am finished! _You _get out!" Then, as the door slammed shut again, I added, raising my voice further, "And I need enough long rags to make a binding around his chest. _Tout de suite!"_

Turning back, I flung myself down on my knees by the prisoner again, trembling with rage.

He gave again a low whistle. "I'm impressed, Sarah! Little bitty chipmunk like you. Why, you're hardly bigger than a minute, yet you stand up to _le colonel_. And live!"

"He knows better," I growled. "He tells the men all the time: Do not stir up the wrath of the red-haired woman, _mes enfants_, or she will bide her time and come upon you with her knife and gut you like _un poisson!"_

"And have you?" he asked.

"Have I what?"

"Have you ever gutted one of them like a fish?"

"Not yet. But I've daydreamed it often enough!" I glanced at his face and added, "Whenever there is a hog to be butchered, _le colonel _has me gut it for practice. And he makes the men watch."

He gave a snort. "That sounds like an effective deterrent," he said. "And you carry a knife on you?"

"_Bien sûr_. At all times," I replied. Reaching in through the hidden opening I had made in the pocket of my skirt, I drew the knife out of the sheath that was strapped along my thigh and showed the blade to him.

At the sight of that knife, his eye opened so wide that even the swollen one cracked open a bit. "Bowie knife," he nodded. "I'm even more impressed. Very nice weapon. Where'd you get it?"

I shrugged. "I have always had it. _Le colonel _himself taught me to use it." I grinned and boasted, "I can throw it at a fly on the wall and not miss."

He shot me a look. "And the men, they know that?"

"_Ah, oui, m'sieur. _They know. _Le colonel _reminds them often."

"And your temper. Is it as fiery as advertised, Sarah?"

"My temper, _m'sieur_, is precisely as fiery as I need it to be, to live among those animals," I assured him.

"Good girl," he said. Admiring the knife once more, he sighed, "Pity I'm chained with iron and not merely tied with rope. Your little protector there might have come in handy for me."

I was starting to put the knife away again when he said to me, "Sarah, wait. Are those… are there letters on the hilt?"

"Letters, _m'sieur?"_

"Yes. You see them? What do they say?"

"I…" I dropped my head and whispered, "I am sorry, _m'sieur_. I do not know letters."

His eye flicked to my face. "Even that they have robbed you of, _ma pauvre? _Sarah, I am so sorry. Show me then."

I held it up for him to have a look. "Hmm," he reported. "It says: WmMcG. Looks like this knife once belonged to a man named William who had an Irish last name."

"Irish?" I asked eagerly. "Did you not say that I am Irish?"

"I certainly did, Chipmunk. McG," he added. "I wonder what the G is for…"

"Chipmunk! Why are you calling me a chipmunk?"

His eye twinkled at me. "It's a feisty little critter, same as you."

I snorted, ducking my head so he wouldn't see the smile I was fighting to suppress. Chipmunk!

Once again the door slammed open, this time to permit a storm of rags to be flung into the room. "There you have what you requested, woman!" _le colonel _roared at me. "You have five minutes!"

"It will take five minutes merely to pick them all up!" I roared back. "Half an hour - _au minimum!"_

The door slammed and was locked again. Immediately I set about gathering the cloth, using my knife to tear the pieces into strips. Soon I was busy winding the lengths of cloth around and around _M'sieur _Le Grand's chest. This was not at all an easy task, for with the man's arms chained so, I could not take his shirt off, and the tail of it kept slipping down into my way again and again. The more I grumbled, though, the more patient _M'sieur _Le Grand became, speaking to me gently and soothingly, encouraging me that I was in fact getting the job accomplished.

"There, you see?" he said when at last I finished. He carefully drew in a large breath, stretching against the binding. _"C'est bien fait_, Sarah. Well done. _Merci un mille fois."_

"I am exhausted," I told him. I eased his undershirt down over the binding and started to tuck it back into his waistband, but he shook his head. "Don't worry about that, Sarah."

Fine. If he didn't mind, I was certainly too tired to care. I pulled his shirt straight then and set out to do up his buttons, but again he stopped me. "The buttons don't matter either, Chipmunk," he said. "You need to get some sleep."

I nodded, in more ways than one.

"Go on then," he said. "Off to bed with you. I'll see you in the morning."

I looked around, gathered the dirty dishes, then glanced at the bucket which was still partly filled with water. "Shall I leave that?"

He shrugged. "I don't see much point in leaving it; I can't reach it."

So I took the bucket as well. Just as I got to the door and was about to call for _le colonel _to come let me out, I heard the man's voice from behind me saying, "_Bonne nuit_, Sarah."

I turned back. He was leaning against the wall, apparently composing himself to try to sleep in that horrible position. Seeing that I was looking his way, he gave me a jaunty smile and even a wave of one of his manacled hands.

"You are twinkling at me again," I said to him. "I do not understand you. How can you twinkle when you are in such a bad way?"

"What time better?" he replied. "Besides, you are my one beam of sunshine in this deep dark dungeon, and if looking at you brings a twinkle to my eye, so be it." With a twinkle yet again, he reiterated, "_Bonne nuit_," then added with a mischievous bob of his eyebrows, "Chipmunk."

"Deep dark dungeon?" I asked. "But we are not underground, and in the morning, the sun will shine in through your window there."

"Figurative language, Sarah," he explained.

"Ah. That again! Well, _bonne nuit, M'sieur _Le Grand," I said. Blowing out the lamp, I called to _le colonel _to unlock the door and let me out.

_..._

The lock clicked shut behind the girl. Leaning his head against the wall, the prisoner stared into the darkness and thought: well, he'd made an ally. What an odd child Sarah was though! He had run the gamut of charm, flattery, and persuasion, only to find that what worked with her was the simple truth. He wasn't used to people being so straight-forward - at least, not anyone under the age of, say, seventy! Only the very young are so truthful, who have not yet learned to be duplicitous, and the very old, who have reached the age of speaking their minds without caring what others think of them anymore. And here was Sarah. Strange Sarah. Forthright Sarah, who was going to help him escape.

She had not been sure how she could help him, and he wasn't sure either, though his fertile imagination was busily coming up with possibilities. Of course, the main possibility, the one he was counting on, was the fact that he and his partner had arranged to meet together in three days. Once he missed that meeting, Jim would know something was wrong and come looking for him.

If only he hadn't fallen into _le colonel's _trap! Not that there was any point in dwelling on what had happened. Somehow, someone had pegged him for a spy. What they had not done, he was sure, was find the evidence he had collected against _le colonel's _band, for if they had found what was hidden in his jacket and hat and saddlebags - yes, even in his belt! - they would have laid out before him the proof that he'd been spying on them. And the beating they'd given him would have been far more severe - _far _more.

Tomorrow, he told himself, he should see if Sarah would be able to return some of his effects to him. If he could only gain access to some of the special items he had hidden in his jacket! Even better, the chemical surprises in the secret pocket of his saddlebags.

He slept at last, lulled by the night sounds of the bayou, until the soft click of the door unlocking awakened him. He turned to look, wary of the large shape that now came at him through the darkness.

And suddenly his bad situation became so very much worse.


	3. Two, morning

**Two, morning ~~~**

Early in the morning, Jim arose and made the rounds of the town, asking questions that no one wanted to answer. After a bit he returned to the hotel, checked out, then saddled up his horse and rode out of Belle Fleur to head for the next town.

Behind him, Sheriff Henri Boirot stood in the doorway of his office, watching him go. _Le colonel _wasn't going to like this.

…

I thought a great deal about _M'sieur _Le Grand that night, going over our meeting in my head. And by morning, I was beginning perhaps to understand what he had meant about a beam of sunshine in a dark place. I had never had a friend before. Now, suddenly, I found myself smiling for no reason.

I rose up early as always, dressed quickly in the tiny room _le colonel _allotted me, then hurried outside to tend to the chickens and gather the eggs.

A hand seized my arm as I came in at the kitchen door with my apron full of eggs. "What are you so happy about, _hein?" _said a gruff voice in my ear.

I looked up into an angry face split by a long and ugly scar. Guidreau. He loomed over me, wrenching my arm backwards, hurting me. Of all _le colonel's _men, Guidreau was the one I hated the most.

Scowling, I said, "If I am happy, _certainement _it is not because I must look upon you! Release me, _cochon_, before you cause me to drop the eggs and ruin _le colonel's _breakfast!"

His hand vanished. Holding my head high, I swept past him and began placing the eggs gently in a basin. Last night's dishes awaited me; I had not cleaned them for tending to the prisoner, and of course no one else had washed them for me.

Lingering in the doorway, Guidreau sneered at me. _"Ah oui, le colonel, _he will want his breakfast _bien sûr_. But when it is over, perhaps _Ma'm'selle _Flambeau will find there is not so much to smile about, _hein?" _He leered at me, spat on my floor, then took himself away.

"What was that about?" I muttered as I attended to my cooking and cleaning, glad at least that Guidreau had moved on.

Quietly I made a little more food than usual for breakfast, hoping that the extra would go to _M'sieur _Le Grand. I had, of course, to wait until the men were through eating before I could take what was left into the cell. And how impossible it felt, waiting! I had no idea how I would help the prisoner to escape, what with the chains on his arms and the keys in _le colonel's _possession - but having someone to talk to! Never had I had a friend, and never had I known what I was missing to have none. But now I could barely wait to see my friend again.

At very long last, _le colonel _gave me permission to eat. I was disappointed to see what a paltry remnant was left of the breakfast. _Quels gloutons, _I thought as I scraped the pot clean and carried the food over to the cell door. Once I was inside, I knelt, setting down the plate and mug while I lit the lamp. Taking up all three, I turned toward the prisoner, saying, "_Bonjour, M'sieur _Le Grand. Here is our bre…"

_Non!_

Somehow I set down the things in my hands again without anything breaking. I then dashed to the poor man's side. "Oh, _m'sieur! _What have they done to you? What have they done?"

_Mon pauvre M'sieur _Le Grand! He was dangling forward, hanging from his manacled wrists, both of which were now torn and bloody. I wrapped my arms round him, managing somehow to lift him and resettle him back against the wall, easing the dead weight off his wrists. Dead weight… that phrase echoed in my head as I knelt beside him and peered into his face, remembering how he had kept up his spirits and mine yesterday despite his wounds. Now both his eyes were bruised and swollen, both his lips split in many places. There was hardly a spot on his face that was not the wrong color or the wrong shape. In addition, there was something about his right foot that looked very much awry.

"_M'sieur?" _I called to him anxiously. _"Oh, mon ami, mon cher ami! _Please, please…!" I leaned against him gently, my ear to his chest, listening for a heartbeat.

A convulsive breath shook his body. Then, in a voice cracked and broken like his lips, he gasped out, "Sarah…?"

"_Oh, mon cher, _you are not dead!" I whispered in relief. _"Qu'est-ce que c'est? _What happened to you? Who did this?"

"Sarah? I thought… You're not hurt, are you?"

"_Moi? Mais bien sûr, _I am fine. Why would I be otherwise?"

"All right. That's good. I see," he said, still breathing heavily. "Then he took out his anger on me and spared you."

"What are you talking about? _Je ne comprends pas _- I do not understand."

"Guidreau…" he said.

A chill swept over me as I recalled that brute standing in my kitchen, taunting me that I would find little to smile about after breakfast. "He did this to you?" I asked. "But why?"

"Well, because he…" Suddenly he stopped talking. "Wait. You mean you don't know?"

"_Mais non, m'sieur, _I have no idea. He is a beast, _c'est vrai_, but why would he beat you, a man _enchaîné?"_

"Because he was angry with me for speaking with you, Sarah. And he was angry with you as well for spending so much time with me last night."

I stared at him. "Why would that anger him? Because I was tending to the wounds he and the others had made on you?"

He paused and tipped his head at me. "You really don't have any idea what I'm talking about, do you?" Then he nodded. "All right, that's good to know."

"Any idea regarding what, _m'sieur?" _I asked, growing more baffled with each answer he gave me.

"So no one has ever said anything to you about… about you being, uh, promised to Guidreau?"

"Promised?" Now that chill swept over me again, settling in my heart. "What sort of promise?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "Why… to, ah, marry him."

"Marry!" I stared at him in horror. "What? _Mais non - non!" _My stomach flipped over and I thought I might retch. "Promised to - oh! - to marry that disgusting, that… Oh! Never would I promise myself to him! Never! _Jamais!"_

"Which shows, Chipmunk, what very good taste you have. Or perhaps what very bad taste you lack."

"But… _C'est incroyable! _Why would he tell you such a thing? I never promised…"

"Ah, but the promise was not yours, Sarah," he told me. "It was _le colonel _who promised you to Guidreau."

"_What!" _I said, my voice packing such cold dead fury into that single word that _M'sieur _Le Grand called to me urgently, "Sarah! Sarah, don't! Guidreau took out his rage on me and not you. Keep it that way! Don't you go doing anything that will get you hurt!"

"It is not Guidreau who has stirred up the wrath of the red-haired woman at this moment, _m'sieur_," I told him evenly. Coming to my feet, I stormed across the cell and began pounding the flat of my hand against the door. "_M'sieur le colonel! _Open up!" I insisted, my voice not the soft voice of Sarah but the hardened voice of Flambeau.

I heard the sound of the key in the lock and quickly wrenched the door open. And seeing that _le colonel _was standing before me empty-handed, I wrested the key out of the lock, then shook it in his face. "How dare you!" I bellowed, glaring up at the man. "How dare you!"

Folding his arms, _le colonel _bellowed back, "How dare I what, woman?"

"How dare you beat _M'sieur _Le Grand for being a friend to me!"

"I did not beat him! I did not lay a hand on him!"

"Ha! No, but you used Guidreau's hands to beat him. You hold the keys, _n'est-ce pas? _Without you to unlock this door, Guidreau would never have entered. The evidence of what you have done is plain to my eyes!" Shaking the key in his face once more, I added, "But now _I _control this key. Apart from me, from _my _permission, none shall enter this room again. And now," I pointed at the prisoner and demanded, "_M'sieur le colonel_, take your other keys and release his hands!"

Coldly, _le colonel _said, "Then you accept responsibility for the prisoner?"

"Every minute, night and day!"

_Le colonel's _eyes bored into mine. "If he escapes, Flambeau, I will kill you - I myself, _moi-même_."

"Escape? Look at him! Can he walk? Can he crawl? Barely can he breathe! The only way _M'sieur _Le Grand will escape you today is by dying - and that, I assure you, I will not permit!"

_Le colonel _grunted. He entered the cell; I instantly locked the door behind him, then crossed the cell swiftly, reaching the prisoner before _le colonel _did so that I could bear the man up while _le colonel _unlocked the manacles. Now I helped my friend to lie down on the pallet and told him, "I will fetch water to wash your fresh wounds, _mon ami."_

"I will... be waiting," he managed.

I shot him a sharp look. Again that joke he made? "And even now _les bon mots_?" I said to him. "The twinkling? What a remarkable man you are, _M'sieur _Le Grand!"

While I was fetching the water, _le colonel _roared his men into order and led them away to their work, and how glad I was to see them go. But just to be safe, once I carried in the bucket and some rags, I locked the door again so that no one else would get in.

I cried my way through my tasks this time; _M'sieur _Le Grand, I think, was comforting me as much as I was him. I bathed and wrapped his torn wrists, washed the blood from his face, and with my fingers gently opened his eyes for him so that he could confirm that he did indeed still have vision. I rewrapped his ribs; he was certain that now at least two of them were cracked or worse. I checked his foot as well, which _M'sieur _Le Grand concluded was merely sprained and in need of wrapping and rest.

At length I ran out of things to wash and bandage. I helped my friend to lie down in the most comfortable - or should I say, the least uncomfortable - position we could find for him. With a groan, he commented, "Never again will I take for granted the ability to sleep horizontally."

I fetched the forgotten breakfast. It was stone-cold and pitifully scanty, but I insisted on him eating it. With his wrists so sore, I had to feed it to him, and with both his eyes shut, I made him believe I was eating every other bite when in fact I gave him all. Once the meal was done, I started to clear away the dirty dishes and leave to attend to my housekeeping, but his voice stopped me.

"Chipmunk, do you realize that you're a wonder?"

"I am?"

"Absolutely! Last night - even this very morning - my arms were chained up there to the wall and _le colonel _was in complete control of me. And now, here are my arms, free, and who is in charge of me but you, Sarah." He managed to open his eyes to a slim slit for all of five seconds, and took advantage of that time to twinkle at me. "_Merci mille fois. _Now we will be able to escape."

"Escape!" I exclaimed, and my heart leapt up.

"Yes," he said. "Any time we're ready. However," he added, "that's not going to be today. Or tomorrow either, you realize."

"Why not?"

He brought forth a small laugh. "Sarah, look at me. Can I walk? Can I crawl? And with these ribs, can I ride a horse? If we escaped today, how far do you suppose we could get before _le colonel _and his men caught up with us? And once they caught us, what would they do with us?" Soberly he reminded me, "You know what _le colonel _said would become of you if I escape."

"_Oui_. But what are we to do then? Nothing?"

"In a way, yes. For the time being, this poor ol' battered body of mine needs to recover from all that's been inflicted upon it. We're talking days, Sarah. Maybe three, maybe four."

"Oh."

"_Je regrete_, but unfortunately it just can't be helped. But it will only be a slight delay. And in the meantime… Sarah, do you know what the very best activity is for a body to recuperate?"

"No."

He opened an eye enough to twinkle at me. "_Sleep_. And that's what I plan to do plenty of. Starting right now." He stretched, wincing as his ribs caught, then settled himself down to nap.

And I, though I had the housework to do, the dishes to wash, the garden to weed, and a stomach which was reminding me it had had no breakfast - I sat by his side for a while, watching over him. He was safe for now to a certain extent. At least, I hoped he was safe. I did not relish having to wait three or four days to be able to escape from here, but I knew he was right. How was he to walk with his ankle so? And I, I could not carry him away from here. So how...

Wait. Something he had said finally worked its way from the back corner of my mind right up to the center front. He had said... he had said that with the injuries to his ribs, he could not ride a horse.

"What horse?" I said.

"Hmm? Whazzat?"

Oops! I had not intended to wake him. "Shhh..." I whispered soothingly. "Go back to sleep."

"Something about a horse?" he insisted.

Oh, now he was awake! _"Je regrete," _I said to him. "It is only that you said your ribs would not permit you to ride a horse just yet. But I am wondering: What horse?"

"Well, presumably mine. Ought to be around here somewhere. I was on horseback when they ambushed me." He glanced at me, managing now to keep his eyes open for all of seven seconds. "I don't suppose you've noticed a strange horse around here lately, have you?"

"_Le colonel _has a horse. That is the only one I've... ever... Wait." It flashed into my memory now. As I had been drawing the water in the yard this morning while the men left, _le colonel _had been on his horse as usual. And beside him...

"Guidreau was riding a horse this morning," I told him.

"Oh, Guidreau, huh? Imagine that! And just what did our old buddy Guidreau's brand-new horse look like, pray?"

"_Hein_... brown...?" I ventured. "...horse-shaped?"

There was a beat of silence, and then _M'sieur _Le Grand said, "Sarah, if my eyes would only cooperate to stay open for me, I would now be giving you the glare of your lifetime. _Horse-shaped?"_

"What do I know about horses?" I replied, flinging my arms wide. "_Le colonel's _horse once tried to bite me, so I always stay away."

He surprised me by chuckling. "Oh, Sarah, Sarah," he said in good humor, shaking his head. "At length I find, _ma petite brave_, something about which you are not so brave! But listen. Guidreau's horse, did it have a blaze in the shape of a backward question mark?"

"Blaze? What is that?" I asked.

"A long white mark on a horse's face, between its eyes."

"And a question mark? What shape is that?"

"Oh, that's right. My apologies, Sarah. If you don't know letters, there's no reason you would know punctuation either. Look, the blaze on my horse's face is shaped like this." And with his finger he drew on the pallet.

"Ah!" I said. "_Oui, oui, _precisely like that."

He nodded. "My horse then. But what is it with this Guidreau anyway?" he muttered, speaking more to himself than to me. "He takes my horse away - beats the tar outta me over being friends with Sarah. It's as if he's decided that anything I like, he has to wrest it from me…"

Softly, slowly, I said to him, "_M'sieur _Le Grand, you did not… Did you just compare me to, to your horse?"

He gave a cough that might have been covering up a laugh. "Ah. Well, Chipmunk, in my defense, I'm, uh, rather fond of that horse. It's gotten me out of any number of bad scrapes."

"Oh. So now you're saying you're rather fond of me as well?"

Now he definitely laughed. "Fair enough, Sarah," he said. "I'm at least as fond of you as I am of my horse. But now if you don't mind, I really do need to get some sleep."

"_Oui, m'sieur," _I said as he pillowed his head on his arms. I got up, picked up the dirty dishes, then started for the door.

"Oh wait!" he called suddenly. "I was forgetting, but there's another favor I wanted to ask of you."

"_D'accord, m'sieur."_

"That's very trusting of you, Chipmunk, agreeing to do the favor before you know what it is."

"Oh, I didn't think…"

"Don't worry. It's nothing hard. Or at least… I don't know. I don't think it will be hard."

"What is it?"

"When the men captured me, I was wearing a hat and jacket. I would like to have them back. For that matter, there were my saddlebags. Do you suppose you could get my things back for me?"

I frowned. "Louis-le-Maigre has been wearing a hat he did not have before; it comes down nearly to his nose. And… _oui_… Robichaud did not have that jacket before either. But they are probably wearing them now, _n'est-ce pas?"_

"You could have a look around at least," he suggested.

"_Très bien." _I took away the dirty dishes, then spent a very long time hunting through the house. By the time I returned, _M'sieur _Le Grand was, I thought, sound asleep. I turned again to leave him to his slumbers, when he called out to me. "Anything?"

"I checked everywhere I could think of, and the hat and jacket I cannot find. But this is yours, _n'est-ce pas?" _I held out the saddlebags to him. "I am afraid it is empty."

He accepted the saddlebags from me with a smile. "Empty they might seem," he said, "but I can tell by the weight that the secret compartments have not been emptied. _Merci beaucoup. _At least I now have these, _hein?"_

"Secret compartments?" I asked. "What do you have in there?"

"What else would you put in secret compartments, Chipmunk, but secret stuff?" He smiled at me, then yawned. "I'm sorry, Sarah, but I really need to sleep now. And I've kept you from your housework long enough already. I don't want to get you into any sort of trouble from you neglecting your work."

I snorted. "Do not worry. You will not get me into trouble."

"How can you be sure about that?" he asked with another yawn.

"It is simple," I replied. "If I do get into trouble, I will simply bellow back."

"Wait a minute," he said, turning toward me. With his fingers he spread the lids of one eye open enough to look at me. "You are! You're twinkling at me."

I chuckled. "Am I?"

"How 'bout that!" he said. "Well, I have to hand it to you, Chipmunk: you're a quick study."

As I turned to leave him to his rest, I heard his voice, very softly, saying, "And that's a good thing. If we're going to get out of here, likely I'll need the girl to be quick on the uptake."


	4. Two, afternoon

_My apologies for posting this two days late - car trouble kept me away from the library._

* * *

**Two, afternoon ~~~**

"Good afternoon, ma'am."

"Ah! _Bon après-midi, m'sieur_. You needin' some help, _hein?"_

Jim West touched the brim of his hat to the little old lady and took in the colorful gardens of her small homestead. "Yes, ma'am," he said. "If I might have a drink of water?"

"_Mais oui, m'sieur_, you and your horse!" she said cheerfully. She gestured him into the yard and led the way past a riot of beautiful flowers to the trough by the house.

Jim worked the pump to rinse and fill the cup, while Blackjack helped himself to a long cool draught. Once both man and horse were sated, Jim nodded to the woman. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Hot day, _n'est-ce pas?_" she said companionably.

"Very hot, yes." Pointing at the road beyond the fence, West said, "This is the main road through these parts, correct?"

"Ah, _oui, m'sieur_. Everyone passes this way, yes."

"Would you happen to remember a Nealey party that came through about a month back? Warren Nealey, along with his wife, sister-in-law, and five children?"

The friendly regard melted from the woman's face like ice in an oven. "_Je regrete, m'sieur_," she said suddenly. "_Je ne comprends pas l'anglais_."

Interesting, thought James West as he mounted his horse and rode on. Curious how one little question could cause someone to forget how to understand English.

…

My friend was napping when I returned much later with supper. "_M'sieur _Le Grand," I called to him. When he only drew in a long and ragged breath without waking, I set down the dishes and gently shook his shoulder.

"Huh?" He woke, then strained to get his eyes to open. "What…?" He gave a small snort, then added, "Those are much too big on you."

"_Oui, bien sûr," _I agreed. "But I could not carry everything in my hands, so these I wore." As I spoke, I aided him to sit upright, his back leaning against the wall. He squinted at me again, then snagged his hat off my head and settled it on his own. "There," he said. "How do I look?"

I was kneeling on the pallet, struggling to shrug off his jacket - _tiens_, it was heavy! But at his question I paused and smiled up at him. "_Mais bien sûr, mon ami, _you are the most handsome man I have ever seen."

He tugged at the brim of his hat, and then, to my surprise, his voice changed. "Well, shucks, ma'am…" he said, then returned to his own voice to add, "But how can you lie to me like that, Chipmunk? As beaten up as I am?"

"You are forgetting, _m'sieur_, those with whom I may compare you. There are not so many faces I have seen beside yours. And there is this as well: You could look a thousand times worse than you do right now, and still you would be _le plus bel homme _- because of this." I leaned forward and laid a gentle hand on his chest, right over his heart. "You have a good heart. And it shows in your face."

He chuckled. "You should have seen me play Iago then. Or Simon Legree."

"_Pardonnez-moi?"_

"Those are some roles I've played on the stage." At my continued blank look, he said, "I'm an actor - or used to be. Well, in large part, I still am."

"Actor? What is that?"

"I pretend to be people that I'm not."

"Why do you that?"

"Well, back when I trod the boards, I acted to entertain, and because I enjoyed it, and because it was how I made my living. And now, well, again in a way, this is still how I make my living."

"I do not understand. And I think perhaps you are using that figurative language again to ensure that I do not understand."

He smiled at me. Then, to my surprise, he said, "You also act to live, Chipmunk."

"_Moi?"_

"_Oui_, you are quite the little actress. When you are with the men, you are Flambeau: big and bold and brassy, loud and unafraid. But with me, you are Sarah: quiet and serious, gentle and kind. Which girl, I wonder, is the real you?"

I did not need to think on that question for long. "I like being Sarah, and hate having to be Flambeau."

He nodded. "You see? You act to live. And you're very good at it. But aren't you glad to know that the real you is still in there somewhere, deep down inside?"

"_Oui, m'sieur." _I had, while he was talking, extracted myself from his jacket, and now I passed it to him.

"_Merci_," he said and began checking the pockets. "So tell me. How did you get these back for me so quickly?"

I smiled and gave a modest shrug. "Did you not hear me? As soon as the men got in, I started yelling. It did not take long."

He gave a soft whistle. "I must have been sleeping soundly to miss that! So you pulled a little case of 'If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy,' hmm?"

"Mama?" I echoed. "I am not their mother."

"For which, I am sure, you are profoundly glad," he said. Laying aside his jacket, he now turned his attention to supper. "Mm, I'm hungry! What have you made for us tonight?" He squinted at the plate, which was brimming full. A moment's hesitation, and he added, "Ah. Stew. Again."

From my pocket I brought out a spoon for each of us. Lifting the dish, I unnested a second plate from underneath, then proceeded to divide the meal between the two plates before passing him his portion. "We will have to share the mug still," I said. "I could not carry two."

"This is fine," he said. We ate in silence for a bit. At length he spoke again. "Sarah?"

"_Oui, m'sieur?"_

"I'm curious. Who taught you to cook?"

"Louis-le-Maigre."

"Louis the Lean? I suppose that explains it."

"Explains what?"

"He didn't teach you how to cook anything but, uh, scrambled eggs for breakfast and stew for supper?"

"_Non, m'sieur." _A suspicious was forming in my heart. "There is something wrong with my cooking?"

"Wrong? Oh, not exactly _wrong_. Not in a crowd of men of such, ah… refined palates. Just a trifle, oh, repetitious, that's all. But I suppose to feed a horde like that, something like stew is the easiest way to go."

"I fix what they bring me. And what I grow in my garden."

"Sarah," he said, "there's no reason for you to feel defensive. I didn't mean to criticize or belittle your cooking. In fact," he finished the remainder on his plate and gave me a big smile. "My compliments to the chef."

"_Le chef? _Why would you compliment _le colonel _for the meal? He did not cook it; I did."

"No no, Sarah. In English, we use the word 'chef' to mean the chief cook, not just the chief."

"Ah. Well then… _merci. Merci beaucoup."_

"_De rien, _Chipmunk." He squinted, then asked me, "By the way, where is the mug?"

I pressed it into his hands and he took a long drink, then sighed. "So much nicer than last night, hmm?" he asked.

"Nicer? When you got beaten up overnight?"

"I didn't mean that. I meant not being chained to the wall. Being able to eat for myself. It's always much nicer to be able to do things for oneself."

"And how are you feeling, _m'sieur?"_

"Sleepy."

"I… I did not mean…"

Dropping his voice, he replied, "I know what you meant, Chipmunk." He stretched experimentally. "Ribs feel a touch better. Not as good as I would like. Not good enough to…" And now his voice disappeared entirely as he mouthed to me, "…ride a horse."

"Shall I rebandage you?"

"That sounds like an excellent idea."

…

Jim unhitched his stallion from the railing, mounted up, and rode slowly out of the town of Canard. Interesting: like the old woman who had given him water earlier, the sheriff in this town had suddenly found that he spoke no English. Not only that, but the hotel clerk had regretfully informed him that, though they had thirty rooms, there were no vacancies. As man and horse passed beyond the last of the buildings and headed into the countryside, Jim patted the side of Blackjack's neck and said, "Looks like we camp out on the trail tonight, buddy."

West soon found a likely camping spot. He took care of his horse, then set about making camp. He was not surprised a bit when men began to appear out of the underbrush. In just moments he was surrounded by seven ruffians. The leader smiled toothily and aimed his revolver at West. "You comin' with us, yankee," he said.

"Hello, Petitcharles," said Jim, addressing one of the other ruffians. "Did you ever remember who sent you and the Romain brothers there after me?"

Those four exchanged sheepish glances as the leader turned a momentary glare their way. Instantly facing West again, he drew back the hammer on his weapon and said, "_La ferme!_"

With a slight smile, Jim said, "Sorry. I seem to be having problems with translations today. What was that again?"

Fury darkening his face, the leader made a gesture at one of his men. That fellow strode up to West and drew back his arm to backhand Jim across the face. "He said, 'Shut your mouth,' yankee!" he bellowed.

The hand flew toward West, but the blow did not land. West grabbed the arm and twisted it up behind the man's back. Suddenly Jim's revolver was in his hand, the muzzle pressed to the henchman's head. "You want to holster that now," Jim said to the leader.

Reluctantly, the leader uncocked his weapon and returned it to its holster. Now he held up his hands, nodding to the rest to do the same.

"All right," said Jim. "I want some answers and I want them now. Who sent you after me?"

A soft sound behind him alerted Jim that someone else had entered the scene. West turned, shifting his aim toward the newcomer - but too late. A blackjack whirled out of the night and smacked him over the head. Jim fell to the ground and lay still.


	5. Two, evening

**Two, evening ~~~**

How relieved _M'sieur _Le Grand seemed to be when I returned! As I set down the fresh rags and the bucket of water, he said to me, "I don't like the way the men whooped and whistled when you went out there, Sarah. I don't think you should go among them anymore. You're not safe out there."

"Indeed, _m'sieur_, I have no wish to go out there again," I replied, trying to keep my voice light and carefree. I took one of his hands to unwrap and clean his wrist.

"Sarah..." He caught my hand between both of his and tried to peer into my face. "Why, you're trembling like a leaf. What's wrong?"

I made no answer.

"Chipmunk, I need you to tell me what's wrong."

"I do not wish to tell you," I replied firmly. Steeling myself, I gently extracted my hand from his and set about unwrapping one of his wrists. "_Regardez, m'sieur. _I am no longer trembling. _C'est bien_." And I went about cleaning and rebandaging that wrist, then the other. Next I tackled the myriad wounds on his face. Though he tried not to show it, some of these surely stung him when the water got in them, and I apologized to him many times.

"Don't worry about it," he assured me. "So what if it smarts now and then? It feels wonderful to have my face cleaned. You have such a gentle touch."

I came now to the lump above his ear and softly ran my fingers over it, ruffling through his hair. I did not think he would see or hear. But he did.

"Sarah? Chipmunk? Why are you crying? Tell me what's wrong."

I shook my head.

"Sarah?" He felt around on the pallet till he found one of the rags, then pressed it into my hand. And as I used it to mop at my face, he quietly put his arms around me and settled my head against his shoulder. "It's all right," he murmured to me, gently patting me on the back. "Everything's going to be all right, kiddo. You just go ahead and have yourself a good cry. Bet you never do that, right? So the men won't see weakness?"

No one had ever treated me so kindly when I cried; when I was small, the men had found my tears hilarious, mocking and ridiculing me so that I swiftly learned to cry no more. And _M'sieur _Le Grand was right about weakness as well; I never wanted the men to see anything of that sort in me. But now... Now his very kindness only made me cry all the more, soaking the shoulder of his shirt and undershirt as well as I utterly cried myself out.

"I am sorry," I whispered at last.

"Need a fresh rag?" he offered, handing me yet another.

I took it, but instantly pushed away from him. "I should not be in your arms; what if Guidreau sees?"

"Aha. Then it is Guidreau who has been upsetting you again."

He was too perceptive. I drew a ragged breath, then admitted, "_Oui_. When I went out to draw the water just now, he... he followed me. He made to me a solemn vow that..." I swallowed hard and shook my head again.

"What, that he would kill me?"

Reluctantly, I nodded. "He says you are stealing my heart from him."

"Stealing your...! All right, how is that supposed to be possible? How can anyone steal your heart from _him? _Your heart has never been his to begin with!"

"And never shall be," I pledged. "But, _m'sieur_, I did not wish you to know of his threats."

"Sarah, if someone is making threats against me, I need to know it so I can be prepared. But what about you? Tell me, out there..." He gestured toward the door. "...do you have a safe place, somewhere you can lock yourself in to keep him away from you? Because he seems to like attacking people in the middle of the night."

_"Non, m'sieur."_

"Well then, Sarah, I seems to me that it will be safer for you if you don't leave this room anymore tonight."

I stared at him. Was he demented? "Guidreau will not like that!"

"Well, there's an awful lot about Guidreau that I don't like either!" he fired back. Then, more gently, "I'm sorry, kiddo. I'm angry at him, not you. I just don't think you're safe around him. I still have the feeling that he would like to beat you up as well. I don't like people who pick on kids. And I've never liked bullies." He squinted at me. "Stay here, Chipmunk. You'll be safe with me. I, uh…" He gave me a bashful grin. "I'll admit it; I'm an inveterate flirt. Never did want to resist a pretty face. But I'm not a cradle robber. You don't have be afraid that I'll put the moves on you."

"Put the moves on…?" I asked in confusion.

"Ah… That means, uh… Well, it's a euphemism for… Er… Oh, don't worry about what it means. It's something I won't be doing. And anyway, you've got your Bowie knife. If at any time you feel that I'm being less than gentlemanly toward you, you can, you know, gut me like a fish."

I recoiled in horror. "_M'sieur _Le Grand! I would never do such a thing to you!"

"And may I never give a young lady of your age cause to. Nevertheless, Sarah, for your own safety, stay here tonight. Do not leave this room."

"But there is only one pallet," I pointed out. "Where will I sleep?"

"You take the pallet. I'll sleep on the floor."

"But, _m'sieur!"_

"You take the pallet. I'll sleep on the floor," he repeated. "Are we agreed?"

I hesitated a long moment before nodding. _"D'accord."_

"Good. Now, if you wouldn't mind…" He started unbuttoning his shirt. "I still need you to rewrap my ribs."

I helped him take off the shirt and undershirt as well, then removed the bandages. The big purple bruise looked nastier than I'd remembered. I brought the lamp close and lightly ran my fingers over the area as I examined it. Suddenly the man gave a shudder and shivered.

"Did I do something wrong?" I asked.

"No no," he said, but there was a hint of uneasiness in his voice. "Just a touch of goose flesh, that's all. It… it's fine. It's passed. Go on, Chipmunk. Go ahead and finish."

He moved his arms out of my way and I began wrapping his chest again. After I'd been working at that for a few minutes, to my shock, a flush abruptly flashed over him, turning him bright scarlet. I could feel the heat radiating off his skin.

Startled, I asked, "_Qu'est-ce que c'est? _What is that about?"

He found one of the rags and wiped it over his face. "I don't know," he said. "My word, but it's hot in here!"

"Hot? No, not really. What was that? A blush?"

"I wouldn't think so," he replied, sounding very puzzled. "It's not as if… Well, this is the third time you've tended to my ribs for me. I didn't blush the previous times; why should I start now?" He wiped at his face some more. "Ah, there. It's cooling off now. Um. Just, uh, go ahead and finish quickly, Chipmunk. All right?"

I wrapped him up again, then started to put his shirts back on him, but he shook his head. "No, those are wet. Just help me get my jacket on."

"_Très bien_." As I got the jacket settled around him, my hand brushed across his skin above the wrapping. He felt damp. Clammy. _"M'sieur?"_

Pulling the jacket tightly around himself, he exclaimed, "And now I feel cold again. What's going on here? I don't like this."

"But what is happening?" I asked.

"I wish I knew," he murmured.

…

In fact, he was afraid he knew. He had a certain amount of medical knowledge, enough to have successfully blended in among real doctors at times, and was beginning to suspect that he recognized what was going on. And if he was right…

If he was right, he might very well die here. And Guidreau wouldn't have to do another thing.

He buried those thoughts and laid down on the floor, giving the pallet to the girl. After an exchange of wishing each other "_Bonne nuit_," Sarah blew out the lamp and darkness ruled.


	6. Two, night

**Two, night ~~~**

Jim awoke to darkness - darkness and movement. He was on his belly lying across something large with his head dangling on one side, his legs on the other, and his hands tied behind his back. The something large under him was a horse, of that he was sure. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he began to make out what was going on. He and the horse across which he was draped were part of a string of men on horseback riding through the night.

"_Le colonel _will be happy with his prize, _bien sûr!_" said a voice Jim recognized as that of Petitcharles.

"Hush!" the leader growled. "We ain't takin' him to _le colonel_. Boirot wanna see 'im first."

Hmm. Boirot - Sheriff Henri Boirot? thought Jim. Well, he wasn't surprised to hear that the sheriff was up to his neck in this business. And there was someone else, someone known as the Colonel. It wasn't quite a name, but it was more information than he'd gathered so far. Was Boirot working for this Colonel? Well, too bad for both of them, Colonel and sheriff, because whatever plans those two gentlemen might have in mind for James West were just going to have to wait. Jim had an appointment to meet with a local doctor the next day, as well as a rendezvous with Artie the following morning, so he had no intention of hanging around here any longer than he had to.

First, though, he needed to check on something. Softly West gave a few clicks of his tongue; the horse under him responded with a nicker and a shake of its mane. Perfect. They had put him on Blackjack, his own horse. Now he slid a small knife out of the waistband of his pants and went to work on the ropes binding his wrists. The dark of the night, he was sure, along with the swaying movement of the horse, would mask the sawing motions he was making - unless, of course, someone was making a point of watching him very carefully.

Slowly the first strand of the rope parted. And after that, the second. And as the group continued on through the night, Jim continued to work on the third.

"_Hein!_" A voice split the darkness. "_Regardez! _That yankee, he got a blade!"

No time left now, thought Jim. He yanked his arms apart and the mostly severed rope gave way. A shot rang out, causing the leader to call out, "_Non! Non_, no shootin'! _Le colonel_, he want 'im alive!" The next words from the leader's mouth were a vibrant series of oaths however, for the big black stallion had fallen over flat on its side, its burden of the prisoner lying motionless on the ground beside the horse.

Silence fell for a moment. Then, as the horses milled about uneasily, their riders began arguing among themselves, each man denying that the single shot had come from his gun. The leader was berating them all fiercely when there came a soft sound. Abruptly the stallion surged to its feet again. Jim instantly grabbed the reins, swung himself up into the saddle and off man and horse went at a full gallop.

"_Après lui! _After him!" cried the leader. "An' no shootin'!" He and his men spurred their horses into gallops as well.

Jim glanced back at the horsemen racing after him, then reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigar case. Selecting one swiftly, he lit the cheroot, let it burn for a few seconds, then tossed it behind him. The smoldering stick of tobacco hit the ground and rolled to a halt in the middle of the road, sparkling, sizzling...

BLAM! The explosion caught Jim's pursuers by surprise. Their horses shied and balked, and some of them threw their riders. The leader himself wound up flat on his back in a patch of brambles, cursing his heart out. They all mounted up again as quickly as possible and set out on West's trail once more.

Five minutes later, the leader called a halt. Where had the yankee gone? There was plenty of light from the waning gibbous moon, yet they could find him nowhere. Frowning, the leader yanked off his hat and swatted it against his thigh in frustration.

"Well," he said, trying to come up with some ray of consolation in this fiasco, "at least that yankee, he don't got his gun no more."

"Uh..." said Petitcharles.

The leader turned toward his hapless minion. "What you mean with that Uh...? You took his gun belt like I tell you, right?"

"_Oui_..."

"_Bon! _So where you put it?"

Sheepishly Petitcharles shrugged. "I put the gun belt in the saddlebags of that big black horse. So it don't get lost."

"In the sa...!" The leader snatched the gun from his own holster, reversed it, and applied the butt end firmly to the plainly vacant noggin of Petitcharles Le Blanc. "Leave him!" he ordered as the unconscious henchman hit the ground.

The rest rode on now, all except for Claude, the youngest of the Romain brothers, who stayed behind to watch over his fallen buddy.

As for their quarry, after the leader and the rest of his men had gone on past, Jim led Blackjack out of the underbrush along the side of the road, mounted up, and rode off in the opposite direction.

…

It was a long night for _M'sieur _Le Grand. First he would shake with chills, and soon after that he would burn with fever. One, then the other, over and over. He lost count after five repetitions of the cycle. In between times, he would drop off to sleep, only to be awakened again to either freezing or burning.

At least, he thought, the girl was able to sleep. He just hoped that he wouldn't wake her up.

The night progressed. Eventually he gave up on sleep, or at least on lying down. He sat up, his back leaning against the wall, his left knee drawn up and left forearm resting on it, his right leg stretched out to ease that ankle. When the chills struck, he huddled in, drawing the jacket close around him. When the fever came, he spread the jacket wide to let the heat out. More than once he had to restrain himself from jerking the jacket off and flinging it from him, knowing that he would want it again once the chills returned, knowing how little mobility he had to be able to retrieve the jacket if he happened to throw it away.

Eventually he slept, the cold and hot cycles conspiring to give him bizarre dreams. He did not notice when he began to mumble…

…

_M'sieur _Le Grand started when I struck the match. I lit the lamp, then knelt by _mon ami _and laid a hand on his forehead. "Oh, that feels good," he said. "Your hand is so cool."

"Your skin is clammy," I told him. "It was earlier as well, but I did not want to mention it. And you have been talking in your sleep. I heard you."

"I was? That's not good. What did I say?"

I shook my head. "It was not distinct, nothing I could understand."

"Ah. Good. As long as I didn't say anything I wouldn't want _le colonel _and his men to hear."

"Is this from the chills?" I asked. "Are you still having them?"

He nodded. "Fever too. In fact…"

"You are turning red, _mon ami."_

A moan escaped him. His skin was on fire again. He leaned back, panting, flapping the sides of the jacket, trying to dispel the heat. How could I help him, the poor man?

"Ah!" he sighed as I pressed one of the rags against his forehead, having soaked it in the remaining water in the bucket. "_Merci_," he said. Taking the rag from me, he laid it along one side of his neck, then the other. "This helps. But there must be something wrong with my head. Why didn't I think of that bucket and the leftover rags?"

"I do not know, _m'sieur_," I replied, soaking another rag and cooling him further.

Gradually, the heat subsided. He returned the damp cloth to me, then asked for a dry one. "I need to dry off quickly," he explained, "before the chills hit again."

"How soon will they come?"

He shook his head. "I have no idea. I've lost all track of time. Hmm…" He patted at his pockets, then shook his head again. "I _had _a watch; I guess they took it too."

"But what is happening?"

"I'm sick, Chipmunk."

A few minutes later he began to shake. He pulled the jacket closed and bowed his head, wrapping his arms tightly around himself, steeling himself to wait it out.

I knelt beside him again. "Is there anything I can do?"

He lifted his head and peered at me for a second, then shook his head once more.

I shifted closer and put my arms around him.

"Sarah, I can't ask you to do this. What if Guidreau sees?"

"You are sick. Whatever I can do to help, I will do it. I can at least help you stay warm."

"Well… all right." He leaned his head against me and soon fell into uneasy sleep.

I barely slept the rest of the night for tending to him, cooling him when he was feverish, warming him when he was chilled. After a bit I was able to settle him on his side on the floor again. Reasonably sure that he was well asleep now, I laid back down on the pallet, leaving the lamp lit but low so I could keep an eye on him. At some point, I do not know when, I too drifted off.

Until a heavy-handed hammering on the door awakened me.


	7. Three, early morning

**Three, early morning ~~~**

As the racket of vehement knocking on the cell door assaulted my ears, my glance went first to the prisoner. He was stretched out on the floor, rolled partway onto his back. I watched briefly for the rise and fall of his chest. The hammering came again, but the noise did not alter the rhythm of my friend's slow breathing. I rose and went to the door.

As soon as I unlocked it, the door sprang open, nearly hitting me. "_Regardez! _It is as I told you, _elle est ici! _She is here! She has spent the night here with him!" Guidreau's voice echoed in the room. Shoving forward, he raised his arm to backhand me across my face.

_Le colonel _caught his arm before the blow could fall. Staring at me coldly, he said, "Explain yourself, Flambeau. Why are you here?"

"The man is sick," I said.

"You lie!" hissed Guidreau.

I lifted my chin. "_Voyez vous-même. _And once you have seen for yourself, you will see I do not lie."

They followed me across the room to stand over the sleeping prisoner. "You see? She lies," insisted Guidreau.

"It comes upon him every few minutes," I said. "Watch."

Guidreau made a growl, but _le colonel_, arms folded, kept watch with me. Sure enough, a minute or so later, _M'sieur _Le Grand flushed red again. As I wet a rag to cool the man off, _le colonel _bent to touch him and grunted.

"_Voyez-vous?" _I said. "You see? He is burning up. But a few minutes later, he shivers and shakes. What is happening to him?"

_Le colonel _straightened up and shook his head. "It will not take long."

"What will not take long?"

His eyes - so cold, so black - met mine. "Soon will come the madness. He will rant and he will rave. A few days of this - and he will be dead."

"_Non!_"

He snorted with contempt. "_Tiens_, woman, do you think that you can stay the hand of _La Faucheuse? _Will you threaten the fleshless one with your knife and frighten the Reaper away?" He shook his head. "I have seen this before. A few days it will take." He turned away, gesturing for Guidreau to follow him. "Tend to the prisoner, Flambeau," _le colonel _ordered, and when Guidreau began to protest, he said it again, raising his voice. "Tend him! Then, once Le Grand is dead - then, Guidreau, Flambeau will be yours."

"_Non!_"

Coldly, levelly, _le colonel _turned his eyes toward me and said, "You dare say to me No?" While at the same moment, Guidreau snarled, "_Regardez! _It is as I said. That rat has stolen her heart from me!"

"No, he has not!" I roared at him. All the anger I had ever felt against both men boiled over now as I leapt to my feet and came at him, going toe-to-toe against the much-taller Guidreau. "_Vous crétin_, you never had my heart!" I bellowed. "It is my own, given to no one. Do you not understand? _M'sieur _Le Grand has nothing to do with it. _I. Hate. You! _I have always hated you, _vous cochon laid_, and I always will. You think you will be happy to have me for your wife? Ha! Sleep lightly, _M'sieur _Guidreau, sleep very lightly indeed. For you will never know when I will take my knife and carve out your gizzards for you!" And for good measure, I spat at his feet.

With a roar, Guidreau once again raised his arm to backhand me, and once again _le colonel _kept the blow from landing. "Flambeau!" he ordered. "Make the breakfast! Guidreau, _avec moi!"_

They left. I locked the door, then leaned back against it, still quaking with fury.

"You realize," came a voice from across the room, "that gizzards are not a standard part of the human anatomy."

"You are awake." I hurried to him and knelt by his side, laying my hand on his forehead. "How do you feel?"

He smiled and shrugged. "Awful." I aided him to sit up. "Dry cloths, please?" he added. "Before the chills come again?"

_"Bien sûr." _I passed him some and helped him to dry off.

He chuckled suddenly. "Gizzards..."

"It sounded good, did it not?"

"Let's just say that I would not want you to be threatening _my _gizzards, Chipmunk." He smiled at me. The smile faded. "Here it comes," he said.

I slipped my arms around him and held him till the shivering stopped. _"Merci, petite," _he said. "But you need to go now and obey _le colonel_."

"You will be all right?"

He shrugged. "I'll just have to endure. I'll do my best. But after breakfast is done and the men are gone, Sarah - then we will need to talk."

"Talk about what?"

"Serious matters."

…

The two minions, horseless, had nearly made the long walk back into town now that it was early morning. Suddenly one punched the other in the arm and cried out, "_Tiens_, Petitcharles! _Regardez!_" Claude Romain gaped and pointed, for there along the road came a rider on a black horse.

Petitcharles glowered at the rider in a passion of fury. "Him again! The man is a devil! How can he slip through our hands so, time and again, unless he is in league with Satan himself?"

The rider spotted the pair and, with a nod and a smile, he tipped his hat to them as he passed.

Petitcharles flung down his own hat. "That yankee with his proud looks! He has made this personal now! Before this day is out, I will capture him, _moi-même_. I vow it!"

"I do not think..." said Claude.

"_Hein_, that is the truth," groused his friend. "_Allons-y! _I will capture him, and you will help me!" Petitcharles stomped off toward town.

Claude Romain hesitated a moment, glanced down the road after the rider's departing back, then scurried off after his _confrère_, calling out, "_Attendez-moi! _Wait for me!"


	8. Three, midmorning

**Three, midmorning ~~~ **

For the second morning in a row, I had to wash up the previous night's dishes before starting on breakfast. I hurried as much as possible, partly out of concern for the prisoner, sick and all alone, but mostly because I could feel Guidreau lurking every time I turned around. I sternly kept my thoughts away from him, for I had no desire to lose my breakfast before I had even eaten it. As well, I tried hard not to think of what _le colonel _had said about my friend and the illness, though in that case, every word he had spoken was blazing in red across my brain. I had found a friend, and in just days I would lose him. No, I did not want to think of that!

Once I had the eggs ready, I did not wait to serve _le colonel _and the men but spooned up some food for myself and the sick man, ordering Louis-le-Maigre to tend to serving the rest. I then hastened back to the refuge of my friend's prison cell.

He accepted the breakfast cheerfully enough, but after a few minutes of pushing the food around the plate, he sighed and set it down. "I'm sorry, Chipmunk," he said. "It's no reflection on your cooking. No, really! I just find I have no appetite suddenly. I _am _thirsty." I passed him the mug and he started to drink. Suddenly he stiffened, nearly dropping the mug. I took it back from him swiftly just in time as he bowed himself, dealing with yet another bout of the chills.

I too set my plate aside and went to him to wrap him up in my arms. Before I could do so, to my surprise he all but grabbed me, pulling me close, tucking the jacket around us both. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I don't want to scare you, kiddo. But I can't tell you how much I missed having you here to warm me up that whole time you were off cooking. It really made a difference, not having my Abishag."

"Abishag? What does that mean?"

"Tell you in a second," he said. He closed his eyes, shivering badly.

Once the chills subsided, I laid my hand against his brow, then his cheek. "Better?" I asked.

He nodded and let me go.

"And Abishag?" I prompted.

He chuckled. "Oh, you didn't forget that, huh? All right. Long ago, Chipmunk, there was a king, a very old man, so old that he could never stay warm. So his men found a young woman, beautiful and kind, to tend to the king and warm him with her own body heat so that he would be feel better. I always thought that was a funny old story. But now that _I _can't stay warm, I know how that old king felt."

"And Abishag?"

"That was the girl's name."

I made a face. "That's almost as bad as Flambeau." I passed him the mug and he finished the draught the chills had interrupted.

Now I handed his plate to him, saying, "I wish you would eat something to keep up your strength, _mon ami."_

"Well... all right. I'll give it another try." He took a few bites, but mostly only pushed the eggs around on the plate some more. "I'm sorry, Chipmunk," he said at last. "The food is just sitting like a lump in my stomach. I think..."

"_Oui, m'sieur?_"

"I think for the time being, I would do better on soup. Very thin soup. Broth even. If it's not too much trouble?"

"_Mais non, _it is no trouble at all." I took the plate from him and stood up. "Shall I go now and...?"

"No," he said immediately. "Not right now. I'm not hungry anymore anyway."

"All right." I sat down again and finished my own breakfast, seeing him through a few more bouts of the fever and the chills, until at last we heard the men leaving.

Once all was quiet, I gathered the dirty dishes, taking up also _M'sieur _Le Grand's shirt and undershirt. "I will be back quickly," I said.

"Be careful," he responded. "Keep in mind that someone might decide to come sneaking back."

I had not thought of that. "I will be careful," I promised him.

"And leave the door unlocked."

"Unlocked? Why?"

"Because I don't want a locked door between you and me. Just in case."

"But... but you said yourself that Guidreau might come back."

"Yes, and if he does, I think I have a few surprises for him. Just bring me a stick first so I can lean on it to get myself upright."

_"Oui, mon ami." _I went out and rummaged about for a bit, returning with no less than three walking sticks for him to choose among. He examined them minutely before making his selection, then experimented at using it to get to his feet. "This will do fine, Sarah," he told me. "But please hurry back; we need to talk."

Leaving the door unlocked as he had instructed, I returned the unneeded walking sticks, then roamed the house picking up dirty dishes, which also gave me the opportunity to check for any stragglers hiding in the house. Leaving all the dirty dishes in the kitchen to deal with later, I took the two shirts outside, washed them quickly, then hung them in the sun to dry. A swift check of the stable - no horse had been left behind - and I hurried back inside.

To the sound of yelling! It was the prisoner's voice, his and his alone. Gathering my skirts, I ran for the cell, my heart in my throat, thinking of that unlocked door, worrying that Guidreau had returned and come upon my friend unguarded.

I raced into the cell and found - _M'sieur _Le Grand. Only him, no one else. He was sitting against the wall, his arms raised, making grand sweeping gestures with them, his voice... _Hein! _He was not yelling! Indeed, his voice was not even raised. Yet it was large even so, resounding off the walls, filling the room with the most marvelous sound. And it might as well have been sound, for I had no idea what he was saying. It was English, the words were familiar, but what sort of English? I had never heard the words put together in such a manner before. Figurative language again, I supposed.

I came on into the room. "_M'sieur _Le Grand?" I called to him softly. But he took no notice of me as if I did not exist. "_M'sieur _Le Grand?" I called again more loudly. And again I called out his name.

At last his eyes came to rest on me. His eyes! Barely had he been able to keep them open for more than a few seconds at a time, but now they were wide open, a bit glassy perhaps, and shining with an unnatural gleam that I recognized was surely from the fever.

He broke off the figurative language now and beamed at me. Somehow, for a man sitting on the floor, he made a grand and elegant bow, then said to me, his voice still full and ringing, "_Buon giorno, cara mía! _And who mighta you be, eh?"

I stared at him in amazement. He did not know me? How...? Badly shaken, I stammered out, "S-sarah. I am Sarah."

"A seraph?" he said, his eyes still wild. "_Ma naturalmente! _But of course, I cana see it. A beautiful seraph you are! An angel ofa fire!"

"Sarah," I repeated carefully. "I am Sarah."

"_Sì_, as I have said, a seraph! Serafina!" And suddenly he was off babbling, rattling on and on in something that was neither English nor French, although it was enough like French that I began to pick up some of it. And once I did, I wished I hadn't. For the gist of it, if I understood aright, was a list of my charms, along with his repeated assertion that I was his beautiful fire-angel Serafina.

Then the chills hit him. He doubled over, racked with shivering. I went to him immediately and wrapped my arms around him to warm him, the poor man. As I did, he looked into my face, his mad eyes alight, babbled something more in his not-quite-French, then caught my face between his two hands and planted an absolutely huge kiss on me, right in the mouth.

I shrieked, which was of course muffled by his mouth being on mine. I had never been kissed before! None of the men, not even Guidreau, had ever dared try such a thing, nor had the prisoner before either. But now in his madness…! And he wasn't letting me go either. He kept pressing forward, bending me backwards. I was frightened - and not a little disgusted.

What I did next, I later learned, was simply act on one of the oldest feminine instincts that exists, something women have been doing from time immemorial upon finding themselves in over their heads with a man. Yes, I hauled off and slapped him as hard as I could.

"Ow!" he yelped, his hand springing to cover his cheek, which was now decorated with a bright-red five-fingered mark. "What happened? Did I just get hit by a _brick?"_

From a safe distance across the room, I observed him, particularly his eyes. The mad gleam was gone, the swollen squint back. "_M'sieur _Le Grand?" I ventured.

"Chipmunk?"

The nickname was a relief. "Then you are back."

He paused in rubbing his abused cheek. "I was gone?"

"_Oui, m'sieur."_

"Tell me."

So I did.


	9. Three, midday

**Three, midday ~~~**

"I will be very surprised, Mr West, if you manage to learn anything whatsoever from the locals," said Dr Delacroix. With a laugh, he added, "I myself am a local. I grew up here. I studied hard and returned home and built this fine hospital to serve the locals. And even I am treated as an outsider, because, you see, I went to medical school in the North. Some call me 'Delacwah,' and some call me 'Delacroyz,' but very few view me with anything but suspicion. How much more so you, Mr West! A Union man? A Federal man?" The doctor shook his head.

"I see," said West. "But what can you tell me about the Nealey murders? You saw the bodies. You examined them."

Dr Delacroix paused and closed his eyes for a moment. "_Oui_," he said. "That is, yes, I did examine them. The youngest of the children…" He glanced at West. "That still haunts me, you know. She was only three. Knifed, like all of them. Terrible thing, terrible."

"And I suppose you've never seen anything like it," Jim finished for him.

"Never? Oh no, Mr West, quite the opposite! This happens often, all too often. Travelers passing through the bayous are warned to hire guides because of how often it happens. Parties are attacked, robbed, killed. Why it should be that the Nealey party has attracted the attention of Washington, I do not know. But I am grateful. This has been going on far too long." The doctor reached out a hand and grasped Jim West's arm. "I hope you find them," he said intensely. "I hope you stop them."

"That's what I'm here to do," said West.

…

"Let me get this straight: when you came back in, I was off my head and reciting _Hamlet_."

"_Hamlet?"_

"Well, you did say that you heard the words 'For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.' Correct?"

"_Oui, m'sieur."_

"Well, that's from Hamlet. Typical of me. I always did have a particular fondness for the Danish prince. So then when you got my attention, I didn't know you - and had apparently become Italian."

"Is that what language it was?"

"Mm-hmm. So then you introduced yourself, and I decided that Sarah meant seraph, and began calling you Serafina."

"_Oui, m'sieur_. And your eyes were very strange."

"All right. I remember the slap." My friend shot me a look. "_Vividly_. And apparently that is what brought me out of that fit of madness. But what I don't quite understand is what precipitated the slap."

I fell silent then. I had left out the part about the kiss, and did not wish to add it now.

"Chipmunk?" he prompted.

I continued to say nothing.

"Did I do something?"

I did not meet his eye.

"Something while I was out of my head? Something that frightened you?"

I would not look at him.

"Chipmunk…" he said.

"Please stop asking me," I interrupted.

"No, no, not that. I need your help…"

"Oh!" Quickly I dampened a rag and hurried to bathe his fevered brow.

Once the fever left him this time, to my relief, my friend moved on to a different topic. "Well, Sarah," he said to me, "it's time now that we had that talk I mentioned before."

"The serious matters?"

"Yes. I apologize for not speaking to you earlier of what this illness might do to me before the madness took me just now. I suppose there's always the hope that, if one ignores something, it will go away. But it didn't, did it? It must have been terrible for you, Sarah, to see me changed like that, and with no warning of what was happening."

Silence. "I… I had warning," I said to him at last. And slowly, trying not to cry, I told him of what _le colonel _had said about the illness. Every word, verbatim.

"Oh, he told you that, did he?" Even in their swollen state, his eyes flashed as he added, "Let me tell you, Chipmunk, I too have seen men suffer from this sickness. And while it's true that many die of it, I have also seen men survive it. It's not nearly as fatal as _le colonel _made it out to be."

"It… it is not?"

"No, it isn't."

"Oh! Oh, _mon ami, _I am so glad!" I cried.

"As am I," he responded. "I have no intention of shuffling off this mortal coil any time soon. No matter how much these chills make me feel like I'd like to be put out of my misery…" he added. And as he bowed into the latest attack of the shivers, I played Abishag for him as usual.

At length the chills passed and he leaned back against the wall. "All right, let's see… Serious matters."

"There is more?"

"Oh, Sarah, we've barely begun! To start with, do you happen to know why _le colonel _and his men captured me?"

I shook my head. "_Non, m'sieur_."

"It was because they figured out that I was spying on them."

"Spying? But why?"

"Because… Well, Sarah, do you have any idea what the men do all day?"

"I know what they do all night! Eating, drinking, yelling, fighting. Stinking. But in the day…" I gave it some thought. "They bring home things. All sorts of things. I…" I thought some more. "I suppose they must do some sort of work from which they gain the things they bring home, but what that is, I do not know. They…" Now I raised my eyes to him. "They bring home prisoners at times, like you. I do not like to think of what they have in mind for you, _M'sieur _Le Grand. I had hoped perhaps they would absorb you into the band. But if you are truly a spy…"

"I truly am, yes. Perhaps you don't realize it, Sarah, but what you just described is kidnapping, which is a capital offense. But do you know the rest of what they do?"

"_Non, m'sieur."_

"They are highwaymen, Sarah. Brigands. Which is to say, they waylay travelers who are passing through this area, steal their money and belongings from them… and very often leave them dead."

"_Non…"_

"I'm afraid so, Chipmunk. I sorry to be the one to tell you these things, but… uh-oh…"

The heat overcame him once again. When that at last passed, he said, "Where was I?"

"Highwaymen," I said, barely able to speak the word.

"Oh, right." He looked at me and sighed. "I'm sorry, kiddo. I know this is hard for you. These men, after all, are the only family you've ever known…"

"Family! You think I am upset over _them? _I am upset because there are people who no longer live because of these… these…"

Words failed me and I buried my face in my hands.

I felt his arms surround me and gather me close. He whispered to me words of comfort as I leaned against his shoulder. This man, _mon ami_, my friend, my only friend. "Are you going to be all right?" he asked me as he let me go.

I nodded. "Go on then," I said.

"All right. Well, apparently they've been at this for some time now, but it was only very recently that they happened to pick some of the wrong people for their victims. You see, a group of travelers, the Nealey party, who were found dead not far from here about a month ago, turned out to be friends of one of the senators in Washington. He raised hel… Oops. I mean, a ruckus about it, and that's how I entered the picture."

"A senator? Washington?"

That brought him up short. "You've never heard of…? All right." And he gave me a brief and somewhat bewildering lesson on the workings of the American form of government.

I was frowning when he was done. "_Mais_… Am I understanding? Is it true that, as long as they were preying on ordinary people, no one cared? But when they touch someone connected to power, now it becomes important?"

"Um… Yeah, pretty much that's how it goes all too often. Don't dwell on it, Chipmunk, or you'll wind up a cynic." And then his face blanched as the chills hit him again.

"All right," he said at last. "Uh, senator. Picking up with the senator. He insisted on Federal agents being sent down here to put a stop to such murders at once, and thus the entrance of Yours Truly on the scene, in disguise as Alain Le Grand, here to track down and gather evidence against the marauders."

"In disguise? _Vraiment?"_

"Yep. Wig, false beard and mustache, even false eyebrows. You should have seen me, Chipmunk! But somehow - I don't know how - they got wise to me, ambushed me, stripped me of my disguise, and…" He spread his arms, drawing attention to his wounds. "The rest you know."

"So you are not _M'sieur _Le Grand?"

"No, Chipmunk. I'm a Federal agent, a lawman working for the Secret Service. My name," he told me with a cordial bob of his head, "is Artemus Gordon."

I stared at him. "What a curious name you have!"

"Oh? You really think so? Why, the name of Gordon has belonged to a great number of people throughout the world, including that famous poet George Gordon, Lord Byron, and…"

I frowned. "That is not what I meant!"

He twinkled at me. "I know, Chipmunk!" With a shrug, he added, "What can I say? The name Artemus was a flight of fancy on my mother's part." Then, becoming serious, he added, "But please bear in mind that _le colonel _and his men may know I'm a spy, but I don't think they know who I really am nor for whom I work, and I would prefer to keep it that way as long as possible. So whenever they might overhear, please continue to call me _M'sieur _Le Grand."

"_D'accord, mon ami," _I said. "If, ah..."

"If?" he echoed, looking startled.

_"Oh, excusez-moi! _Not exactly _if_, but..." I scooted closer to him, my voice dropping to a whisper. "It is only that... Well, it occurs to me... Oh! It is only that I would like you to call me Serafina!"

"Really? You'd like to be called that? But I thought I frightened you when I called you that."

"It was not the name the frightened me," I replied. "The more I think of it, the more I like the idea of being Serafina. An angel of fire. That is my - what did you call it? - my flight of fancy."

"All right," he said with perhaps a hint of amusement. "Serafina it is then. My little angel of fire, ministering to me here in the bowels of Hades." He winced suddenly, adding, "Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned fire and Hades. Sarah, the damp rags please?"

I jumped to his aid.

"_Merci_," he said once the fever passed again. "And by the way, Serafina, would you tell me now whatever it was I did that frightened you?"

I did not reply.

"Hmm," he said. "Well, let's try this. Let's put it in the third person. It was not I but some other man - this Italian stranger, _il signore _- it was he who frightened you. Tell me please, Sarah... ah, Serafina. What did _il signore _do?"

I was still silent, but now I felt my face turning crimson.

"Sarah?" cried my friend, startled. "You're not getting sick too, are you?"

_"Non!" _I growled in scorn. "_Bien sûr, _this is not fever! This is a blush!"

"A blush." He gave me a sharp look. "And just why should you be blushing?"

"Because... Oh!" The words flooded forth from me, all in a rush. "Because that horrible _il signore _kissed me!"

"...kissed...?"

"_Oui! _He... he grabbed my face like so and then he... he... he slobbered all over me!" And at that I burst out crying.

I was so upset that, at first, I did not take notice of the sound, the other sound that was competing with my wails. But then I realized that I was hearing something. That other sound brought an abrupt end to my tears as I roared at the prisoner, "And you are snickering!"

"Snickering?" he responded. "Me? Oh, no no, I'm not snickering." He paused. "Now, guffawing, maybe. But snickering, no..."

I snatched up the first thing that came to hand - a damp rag - and flung it at him.

"Now now! I don't need to be getting wet right now, _merci beaucoup!" _He dried himself off as I looked on, glowering. And it did not help that, every time he glanced my way, that twinkle came up in his eyes again and he began to make the snorting sound of poorly suppressed mirth.

"It is not funny!" I insisted.

"No no, of course not," he agreed quickly. "By the way, Serafina, has..." Again he snickered. "...has anyone ever told you that you're beautiful when you're angry?"

There was a shriek, and I grabbed the next thing that came to hand - his hat - and swatted him with it. He only laughed all the more, holding out his hands to ward off the blows, grinning at me, making me furious.

And then his face went ashen. "Getting cold again..." he said.

Instantly I forgave him and slipped into his arms again until the shivering abated.

"_Merci_, Chipmunk," he said. "I don't know what I'd do without you right now. Well, I'd freeze. And then burn up. But you know what I mean. And now," he added, "we come to the last of the serious matters."

"There is still more?"

"_Oui_, Serafina, still more. This is the point that everything else has been leading up to. This is the point when I put my life into your hands. And not just my life, but the life of the man whom I consider to be the brother I never had. You see, Sarah... Serafina... because of this illness, I find that I may well need far more help from you than I thought I would at first. And for you to help me so much will be putting your own life into danger."

I nodded. "All right."

He gave me a grim and somber look. "The remainder of what I tell you it is imperative that _le colonel _and his men do not learn. You understand?"

_"Oui, m'sieur."_

"_Bien_. Chipmunk, I'm not the only Secret Service agent who was sent here to deal with the highwaymen. While I was working undercover in disguise, my partner was following other lines of inquiry. He and I were supposed to rendezvous… hmm, I've lost track of my days. Tomorrow? Yes, I think it's tomorrow morning that we were to meet up and compare notes in order to plan our next moves. Once I miss that meeting, he'll realize something has happened to me, and after that it's likely he'll show up looking for me at any time. And that's where you come in, Sar... Serafina."

_"Oui, m'sieur?"_

"As I mentioned, I was collecting evidence against _le colonel _and his men. I have that evidence here with me, hidden in my hat, this jacket, my belt, and my saddlebags. Yes," he said as I gasped, "that's why I needed you to find and return those items to me. It was hard enough collecting that evidence the first time. I certainly don't want to lose it now."

"But perhaps they already found your evidence while they were using your things," I suggested.

"No, everything's still there." He grinned. "I'm pretty clever at hiding things, Chipmunk. You'd be amazed at the sorts of things I can hide, as well as the sorts of places in which I can hide them. And beside," he added more soberly, "if they had found my evidence already, they would have killed me already."

"Oh."

"Now... Oops..." Whatever he had been planning to say next was interrupted by fever. It took him a few moments to collect his thoughts again once it was over. "I'm getting rather tired of these incendiary interludes," he muttered. "Now... uh, the evidence... I was going to say that, when my partner gets here, it may well be that I will not be in a proper state of mind to be sure to carry the evidence away with me. _Il signore_, for example, might not have thought to grab hat and saddlebags on the way out the door. And so it will fall to you to ensure that I take everything away with me when I go. And," he added, turning his face away, "if it should come about that I'm already, er... gone... before my partner gets here, then it will fall to you to put these things into his hands and tell him the evidence is in them. And in that case, I would want you to give him a message from me, telling him that I'm very sorry I couldn't wait for him, but that I hope to see him on the other side. And you should also tell him of the promises I made to you so that he can fulfill them on my behalf, taking you away from here to somewhere safe."

I stared at him. "But I do not understand," I said. "What do you mean, if you are already gone? Where would you go?"

He smiled at me tenderly. "Only the way of all the earth, kiddo."

It took me a bit to parse the figurative language. And then my eyes went wide. "_Non! Non, mon ami! _You, you said that this illness is not..."

"I said it's not _necessarily _fatal. But the fact remains that it can be fatal. And I must plan for all contingencies."

"But I do not wish for you to die!"

"And I don't wish for me to die either, Chipmunk. But if sheer willpower alone could stay the hand of the Grim Reaper, no one would ever have died in all the world." He sighed and gave me a weary smile. "I'll do my utmost not to die, you know."

And now the chills overtook him once more. I held him close to warm him, and also, I think, to keep him close. My only friend - again I was faced with the possibility of losing him when I had barely found him!

When at length the shivering passed, _mon ami _released me and said, "Whew. I'll be glad to see the last of that! Well now. I'd like you to repeat to me the message I gave you for my partner please, Serafina. The message I sincerely hope you will never have to deliver for me."

Head bowed, I recited it for him.

"Mm! _Très bien! _You have an excellent auditory memory, I think. Meaning you're very good at quoting back remarks after having only heard them once. That's quite a useful ability. You should cultivate that."

"Cultivate...?"

"Practice it, that means."

"Oh." Head still bowed, I asked him, "But how will I know your partner when he gets here, _mon ami?"_

"Well, to begin with, he's probably the only person who would show up looking for Alain Le Grand. And he might ask for me by my real name as well. As for a physical description… he's slightly shorter than I am, and about a dozen years younger. And he…" He grinned. "He is in superb athletic condition. If you see a man who could be attacked by ten other men all at once and emerge victorious, that would be Jim West. I can't tell you how many times he's saved my life. Or I his. And he has this way with women…" Suddenly his grin froze and his voice trailed off to, "Uh…"

"_Ah oui?" _I prompted.

"Uh…" He rubbed at the back of his neck and gave a rueful chuckle. "Maybe I should stop talking now…"

"No. Go on. I am listening, _mon ami."_

"And so sarcastically too! Well… he has this way of… of looking at a woman and making her feel as if she's the only other person in the world. As if all the rest of us had simply dropped off the face of the planet. Part of it is his eyes. He has this rather, oh… dramatic eye color. Sometimes his eyes are as blue as the sky, and sometimes as gray as the clouds of a storm, and sometimes as emerald as your own, Chipmunk. At any rate," he added, "if you should see Jim West, be very careful that _le colonel _and his men do not find out who he is or why he's here. Of course at the same time, you'll need to tip Jim off that I'm here - or, if it should come to it, that I _was _here. I don't know how you'll be able to do both, but I'm sure you'll figure it out."

He sighed and leaned back against the wall. "Thus endeth the lesson, and for the moment, my strength as well. And I'm sure I've eaten up a tremendous portion of your day, and you have work to do, so…"

"_Oui_, ah, Artémus," I said.

With his eyes closed and his head lolling against the wall, he gave a chuckle. "Ahrr-tay-meu," he quoted me. "You can say it in the English fashion, you know."

"I like the French version," I countered. "Artémus."

"_Eh bien," _he conceded. "Have it your way. But don't let me keep you from your work, Serafina."

"You aren't. Part of my work is to tend to you; _le colonel _said so. And you are due for the fever to hit you again any time now, so I will wait and tend to you."

"You're very kind," he said. "Not to mention, precognitive."

"Precog…?"

"Mm-hmm. You just told my future very accurately," he said as his skin began to burn.


	10. Three, afternoon

**Three, afternoon ~~~**

The burly man grumbled to himself as he tied the honda knot in the end of the rope, then ran the length of the lariat through the loop. "Ain't no yankee born gonna make a fool outta Petitcharles Le Blanc!" he said proudly to Claude Romain as he made a practice throw at a fence post.

The lariat tangled, missing the post completely. Claude snickered as Petitcharles growled impatiently and gathered the rope, only to have it tangle around him as well.

"Ain't no need for a yankee to make a fool outta you, Petitcharles. You doin' a mighty fine job of it all on yer own," came a voice the man with the rope knew all too well.

"But Sheriff…!" Petitcharles started in protest.

"An' that's why _le colonel _ain't never let you into his band, and ain't never gonna! Now go on an' get on outta here, the both of you. _Allez-vous en_. We done seen what you can do. Now it's time for the real men to step up an' take care o' that yankee." The sheriff rubbed his hands together, an unholy smile upon his face. That yankee wasn't going to make a fool outta Sheriff Henri Boirot again neither!

…

My neglected work kept me very busy the remainder of the day, between the dishes and garden, the sweeping and bringing in of my small armful of laundry. And of course there was tending to _M'sieur_… no, to Artémus. What a name he had! Mercifully he was able to sleep at intervals, and I got my work done while he napped.

Late in the day, shortly before I would need to begin work on supper, I struggled into the prison cell dragging my pallet behind me, my own blanket and one I had confiscated for his use both piled upon it.

" 'Ello," came a friendly greeting.

It was _mon ami's _voice, and yet it wasn't. I stopped dead in my tracks and straightened up to look at him. He was sitting on the floor as usual, leaning back against the wall, his eyes bright and lively and touched with that mad fever-gleam. _Tiens! _I thought. What now?

He smiled genially at me, then tipped his head to one side in a gesture that put me in mind of a little bird. Yes, little. _M'sieur _Le Grand, I knew, was not a small man, for the one time I had seen him standing upright, he had towered over me by about a foot. Yet somehow now, between the way he held himself and the look on his face, he had remade himself into a little pixie of a man. "Need some 'elp there, d' ya, luv?" he asked me.

This was, I realized, a repeat of him becoming _il signore_. But who was he now? Politely I asked him, _"Comment vous appellez-vous?"_

His eyes sparkled as he gently shook his head. "Come again, missie? Whazzat yer sayin'?"

I was stunned. He did not understand French? How could he have lost his French? "I… I mean… what shall I call you, please, sir?"

Now he beamed at me. "Oi'm Reggie," he proclaimed brightly. "An' what's yer name then, luv?"

"Serafina."

His eyes crinkled up merrily. "Coo! Ain't that fancy, then! But loike Oi was sayin'…" and he pointed at the pallet, "was ya needin' some help then, m'girl?"

"_Merci, m'sieur. _That… that is, thank you very much, Mr Reggie, but with your ankle, sir, I am not sure that you…"

"Me ankle?" he interrupted me. He glanced down at his legs, actually looking at his left leg before spotting the bandage on his right. "Coo!" he exclaimed. "Don't remember that 'appenin'. Well. Give it a troy at least, eh, luv?" He made a great effort to get up, using the wall to support himself at first before spotting the walking stick and pressing it into service. I hurried to his side to help him up, but he only waved me off, chuckling, " 'Ere now, Oi'm s'posed t' be 'elpin' you, not t'other way round, m'girl!"

He got upright at last and began hobbling his way across the room, leaning heavily on the walking stick. Amazingly, though he gave the impression that he was just barely hunching over, as I crossed back to the pallet alongside him, I saw that his eye level was only slightly above mine. How was he doing that?

I lifted one end of the pallet. He took hold of a corner and tried to pull it along - and nearly overbalanced himself. Doggedly he tried again with the same result.

"Mr Reggie," I said, dropping the pallet. I was afraid that, if I did not stop him, he would keep on until he did himself an injury.

"Hmm? Whazzat, m'girl?" He was scowling darkly at his leg.

"Here," I said. "You can take these for me." I scooped up the two blankets and deposited them in his arms.

He beamed at me. " 'Ey, there's a thought! Loighten the load fer ya." He prattled on a bit while I continued dragging the heavy pallet across the room. My idea was to place it opposite the one that was already there, leaving a walking space between them. I was just straightening the pallet out against the wall when I heard him say, " 'Ere now, gettin' moighty cold in 'ere all of a sudden-loike, ain't it?"

Leaving the pallet still a bit crooked, I turned to him. He was still clutching the blankets as he leaned on the walking stick, his shoulders hunched, his face pained. "Are you cold, Mr Reggie?" I asked gently.

He ventured a smile. "Shiverin' t' beat the band, luv," he chattered.

"Here," I said. Taking the blankets from him, I spread one around his shoulders, then the other. "Is that better?"

"Aye, a bit." He was still chattering.

"Would a hug help?" I offered.

His eyes lit up. "From a pretty young thing loike yerself?" He grinned. "S'pose it moight!" He opened his arms and I slipped into them. He was shivering badly, the poor man, as I hugged him tightly, laying my head on his shoulder.

Gradually the shivering lessened, then was gone. And it dawned on me now that my head was resting not on his shoulder but against his chest. He had somehow grown several inches taller in under a minute.

"Oh good, blankets!" he said, his voice his own again. "And another pallet. Good thinking, Chipmunk. I, uh… I don't remember standing up though."

"What kind of talk is this?" I asked him, and quoted something Reggie had said to me.

"Sounds Cockney to me," he replied. "Where did you hear… Oh, is that how I sounded this time?"

"_Oui, m'sieur. _You were a little man named Reggie. He was nice."

"Did he try to kiss you?"

"_Non!" _I replied scornfully. "I said he was _nice!"_

He chuckled. "You also said he was little."

"_Oui, mon ami. _I do not understand that. He was you, _bien sûr_, yet… yet somehow he was barely taller than me."

"_Vraiment?" _he said. He twinkled at me. " 'Ere now, was 'e 'bout this tall then, would ya say, luv?"

I gaped. He was little again, nearly looking me in the eye as before, and his voice! "R-reggie?" I faltered.

"No, it's me." Artémus straightened up again, grinning. "I'm just full of surprises, wouldn't you agree, Chipmunk?"

Slowly I nodded, still staring at him. What an amazing man was my friend!

…

It was late afternoon. Jim had been on the road all day, along with a good portion of the previous night. He was now riding into Lagniappe, the town his partner had been operating out of, and though the meeting with Artie was set for the following morning, Jim rather hoped they might run into each other tonight. If so, they could go ahead and start making plans for their next moves - and getting to see a friendly face for once wouldn't be amiss either.

He certainly hoped Artie had learned more than the precious little he had. It had been a long several days, and over the course of them Jim had gone over the site of the attack on the Nealey family with a fine-toothed comb, finding few items of possible interest as evidence. He had spoken to the local man who had found the bodies, discovering him to be yet another resident of the bayous who suddenly turned out to speak no English. Dr Delacroix had been unfortunately all too accurate in his assessment of the locals: no one was willing to talk to an outsider. The main things Jim had learned in his half-week here were that asking questions mostly led to claims of "_Je ne comprends pas_," and that his very presence in the bayou was attracting attacks - attacks apparently ordered by one Sheriff Henri Boirot as well as by the mysterious Colonel. He wondered when the next ambush would occur.

He didn't have to wonder long. Jim reined up and dismounted in front of the local saloon, giving Blackjack a fond pat and a "That's my boy!" before winding the reins around the hitching rail and stepping up on the porch. As he reached the bat-wing doors to go in, a big bruiser suddenly shoved his way out, knocking the door into Jim and sending him sprawling. "Outta my way, shrimp!" growled the bruiser.

Jim got to his feet and brushed off the dust. His eyes fixed on the big guy, he said, "You want to watch where you're going."

"Yeah?" said the bruiser. "You think you can tell me what to do, shrimp?" He laughed and slung a punch at Jim. Instantly Jim's forearm came up and blocked the punch, followed by Jim's fist smashing into the big fellow's jaw.

The fight was on. The bruiser flung out his arms to engulf Jim in a bear hug only to find that the smaller man was no longer there. Jim had grabbed hold of one of the posts holding up the saloon's porch roof and was swinging around it, increasing his momentum before walloping the big guy hard in the belly. The bruiser went reeling backwards into the next post on, splintering it and raining dust and leaves all over himself as the roof above him jarred and sagged. Still staggering, the big man tumbled off the porch entirely into the dusty street, only to pop right back up again and charge toward West.

Now both men landed hard in the street, rolling, slugging each other, trading blow after blow. Each scrambled to his feet again as the saloon crowd came spilling out onto the porch, whooping and hollering. Soon the mob was placing bets, egging on now one and now the other of the combatants as the pair continued pounding and kicking and tripping each other.

The big bruiser got in a punch that slammed West into the fire barrel, spilling the water all over the ground. With the cheers of the crowd echoing around them, the big man strode forward into the puddle where West was coming to his feet. The bruiser aimed a kick at West's side, only to find the smaller man had abruptly thrust the empty fire barrel into his way. His foot connected with the hard wood of the barrel with a crunch. Howling, the big man hopped on his other foot, trying to regain his balance.

_Splat! _He lost it.

Jim rushed on him, shoving the big man's face into the slurry of the mud puddle. The big man fought back furiously, managing at last to throw Jim off. Now it was West's turn to make a solid connection with the wooden fire barrel - head-first, unfortunately. As the pain exploded in his noggin, West collapsed in the mud and lay still.

"Ha!" crowed the bruiser. He rose to his feet, snatched up his unconscious opponent, and drew back his fist to paste West royally.

A hand closed around his wrist. "That's enough, Marcel. You done good. _C'est bon_. I take 'im now."

"But, Sheriff...!"

Henri Boirot shook his head. "I got 'im now. _Le colonel _don't want 'im dead, just out of sight for a few days, y'know." And as the sheriff relieved Marcel of his burden, he pressed a couple of bills into the big bruiser's hand. "You done good," Boirot said again. Then, with a jerk of his chin, he called to his deputy, "Jean-Denis! Fetch the yankee's horse. He ain't in no shape to walk back to Belle Fleur."


	11. Three, evening

**Three, evening ~~~**

I had made a little soup for _M'sieur _- that is, for Artémus - as he had requested for his supper, but I could tell he did not care for it. He stirred at it, and he smiled at me a lot, but very little of it did he eat.

"Something is wrong?" I asked at last.

"No no," he said hastily. He then spooned some into his mouth, swallowed, and gave me another smile. "Everything's fine. See?"

"You do not like my soup," I stated flatly.

"No, it's good soup. It's very good soup." And now, to prove his words, he lifted the bowl to his lips and took a good draught.

I waited, watching. Finally he managed to force it down and again gave me a smile, but one that was far more pallid than his smile beforehand.

"You do not like my soup," I repeated. "You do not have to pretend. You do not like my cooking."

He sighed and set the bowl aside. "Now, Chipmunk, it's not like that. It's this illness; it's affected my taste buds. Nothing tastes good. Not even beef stroganoff would taste good to me at the moment. It has nothing to do with you."

I was not sure if I should believe him, and I'm sure the look on my face told him so.

He waited until I laid aside my plate, having finished my own supper, then he said to me, quite softly, "Would you please come sit with me, Serafina?"

"Are you feeling cold?" I asked as I moved to his side.

He put his arm around my shoulders, drawing me close, and spoke into my ear. "No, it's not that. Or not yet. It's only that there was one more thing I should have told you while the men were gone. It's important enough that I need to tell you now, and they mustn't overhear."

"All right," I whispered.

"When the madness hits me, there's no telling what I might say or do, or how loudly I might say it or do it. So whenever the men are here, I need you to keep careful watch over me. If I start talking about anything to do with Jim West or our mission or the evidence, I will need you to shut me up, Chipmunk."

I stared at him. "How am I to do that?" Me, shut up a grown man?

"Well, that slap worked pretty well earlier today," he said, turning his eyes up toward the ceiling.

"I do not wish to slap you!" I hissed.

"And I don't care to get slapped either," he replied. "But the point is, it worked. It brought me out of it. Another possibility is for you to splash the bucket of water into my face."

I grimaced. I did not care for that one either!

"Serafina, I'm counting on you to stop my big mouth! Now, whatever it takes to do that, do it! This is vital!" he said, his voice soft but urgent. "The men must not overhear me saying anything about the mission. If slapping me doesn't get the job done, or splashing me with water, get more drastic. You could try whacking me over the head with that walking stick to knock me out…"

"I will not!"

"…And if nothing else works," he went on as if I had not spoken, "then you must spread the blanket over my face and hold it there firmly over my mouth until I am silent."

"You mean until you are dead!" I hissed at him.

"If that's what it takes, yes," he whispered.

"I will not!" I repeated, hating the tears that were running down my cheeks.

"Shhh," he said, wrapping both arms round me. "I'm not trying to upset you, Sarah. But you have to understand. Think this through. If the men hear me talking about my mission, they will kill me and also destroy the evidence, and very likely kill my partner as well. And what will be the result, but that they will continue on as highwaymen, and many more innocents will be murdered? If, on the other hand, you prevent me from ranting about my mission, even if I am dead, you will be able to pass my evidence on to my partner, and this will bring the murders to an end. If I'm not still in the land of the living to see it, at least my death won't have been in vain."

"I am no murderer!" I hissed at him. "Stop it! Stop telling me to…"

"Shhh," he said again, but whatever else he may have said I did not hear, for I threw my hands over my ears to block out his words. Kill him! He expected me to kill him! My one and only friend!

He took hold of my hands and gently but firmly removed them from my ears. "Serafina, stop behaving like a child. I am counting on you to shut me up if…"

"Oh, shut up now!" I growled at him.

"Sarah! Stop being hateful. If you insist on acting like a child, then I shall treat you as a child. You will do what I tell you to do, young lady. You will obey me."

Glaring at him, I hissed, "And what makes you think I will obey you, _hein? _What reason have I to obey you?"

His eyes soft and dewy, he replied, "Well, I had hoped because of the friendship that exists between us. And because of the practical reasons I just gave you. And because it's so important. By the way, Chipmunk," he added, with that twinkle coming up in his eyes - a twinkle that I happened to hate at that particular moment, "did you know that when you say the word 'reason,' your nose crinkles up just adorably?"

Oh! All the fury that had been rising up within me since this conversation began now boiled over entirely, and I did what I had said earlier I had no wish to do. I slapped him. Possibly I slapped Artémus harder than I had _il signore_. I did not know and just then I did not care. Leaving him to rub at his twice-abused cheek, I sprang to my feet, gathered up the dirty dishes, and strode off across the room to let myself out.

"_Tiens! _There you are!" said Louis-le-Maigre as I stormed into the kitchen and dumped the dishes on the table. "You keep leaving the work to others, and _le colonel _ordered me to serve the supper and see to the washing up after. You… _Hein! _I am talking!" he added as I grabbed a bucket and marched out to the yard to fetch some water for washing the dishes.

I did not want to see anyone nor talk to anyone. How angry Artémus had made me! In my fury I must have become blind, for I did not even notice what was around me until I began to draw the water. Only then did I hear the voice purring behind me, "Trouble in paradise, Flambeau?"

I whipped about and glared into that hateful scarred face. "Do not provoke me, Guidreau. I am not in a mood for it." I lifted the full bucket and started for the house.

Guidreau grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin through my blouse. "He is not to touch you!" he hissed at me.

"And you even less!" I responded. "Let go of me!"

"You are mine!" he insisted.

"Not yet, I am not!" My right arm was in his grasp, making it difficult for me to reach into my pocket to fetch out my protector. So I did the next best thing. I swung the water bucket at him. He howled in rage as the water hit him and the wooden bucket as well. But his hand released me and I ran for the house and the one room of safety within it.

I locked the door behind me, then leaned against it. "Sarah?" called the prisoner. "Are you all right?"

I looked at him, then shrugged.

"Are you still angry with me?" he added.

Again I shrugged.

"I don't want you to be angry. I just want you to understand…"

"Shut up," I interrupted him rudely. I stamped over to my own pallet and threw myself down upon it, turning my back on him. In the silence of this room, I could hear voices out in the house. Angry voices, Guidreau and _le colonel_. I did not care what Guidreau might be saying of me, but I wanted very much to hear _le colonel's _reply. Intensely I listened, and made out the words, "You presume too much. She is obeying me. When the time comes, she will obey me still. For now, _laissez faire! _Let it be! I will…"

"Chipmunk…"

"Shh!"

"Look, I'm sorry I upset you. But please, Sarah, I'm burning up over here! Would you…?"

Oh! In a foul humor, I hopped up, plunged a rag into the bucket, wrung it out messily, then slung it at him. He did not even try to catch it; too late I realized his eyes were closed. They sprang open, _bien sûr_, when the rag smacked him in the head. He peeled it off and looked at it, then at me, read the rage still present on my face, then draped the cloth across his forehead with a mild, "Ah, _merci_. And a dry cloth as well?"

That too I flung at him. "You are too kind to me, Serafina my dear," he said.

With a growl I returned to my pallet and trained my ears to listen in once more on the quarrel between _le colonel _and Guidreau, but apparently they were done with that. I only heard the usual sorts of noises the men would make as the drink overtook them in the evenings. I sighed in frustration.

"Is something wrong?" Artémus asked me.

"What do you care?" I snarled back.

He fell silent. Turning my back on him, I curled up under my blanket and composed myself for sleep.

Some minutes passed, and then his voice came again, saying, "Um… Abishag…?"

I yanked the blanket off me, wadded it up and threw it at him, then turned my face again to the wall and gave a loud fake snore.

"I see," I heard him say softly to himself. "Guess I'm on my own for tonight. _Bonne nuit_, Chipmunk."

I did not reply.

…

Out in the house, what Sarah had almost heard was:

"I will not speak of this to you again, Guidreau! She will obey me; you will obey me."

"_Oui, mon colonel_."

"Because if not," _le colonel _added, his eyes narrowing, "if you cannot leave Flambeau alone and show patience in this matter, I will begin to think I have chosen the wrong man, _hein? _That _peut-être _some other man among _mes enfants _will be the better choice to be leader after me, and to be husband to Flambeau. Have I made the wrong choice, Guidreau?"

"_Non, mon colonel!_"

"_Bon. Bon_, I am glad to hear it. Now. It has come to my ears that there is another spy about, a yankee, asking questions that should not be asked. Henri just sent word that he has the yankee in the _geôle _for us now. We will let this yankee spend the night in his comfortable jail cell, _hein? _And then I will go see him early _en la matin_."

Guidreau nodded. "_Tiens_, that will be a happy awakening for the yankee, _sans doute!_"

"_Vraiment_." _Le colonel _ended the conversation and started to walk away, then turned back abruptly. "But remember, Guidreau. _N'oubliez pas_. Your obedience to me will determine whether or not you will be leader after me, and whether or not you will have Flambeau for your wife. Leave her alone for now or I will change my mind!" And with that _le colonel _stalked off.

Guidreau glowered after him. The old fool, imagining that Guidreau's interest in the girl was romantic! Well, he had played that role well and would continue to play it. Soon, the scar-faced man told himself. Soon this would be over and the girl would be his. And then…

His face twisted into a smile of pure evil. Drawing the knife from the sheath at his side, he fingered its sharp edge and whispered, "Then the fun begins."

…

The dull ache in his head was the first hint to Jim West that his consciousness was returning. He opened his eyes and looked around. Somewhere high above him was a small window, a square of pale light in the darkness. The vertical stripes of black crossing that window clued Jim in on what sort of room this was.

So. He was in jail. Well, that wasn't going to last long. Pulling the lock pick out from under his lapel, he soon had the cell door open. He headed for the main door of the cellblock and laid his ear to it.

A door was just closing in the room beyond and a voice was saying, "I put that yankee's horse in the livery, Sheriff."

"_Bon, bon_," came a voice Jim recognized. "_Le colonel _said to keep the yankee on ice for him for a few days." There came the scrape of a chair, then the voice continued. "_Bien_, Jean-Denis. Me, I goin' home to bed _maintenant_, so you getta watch over our prisoner, _hein? _Don't let 'im get loose!"

"_Oui oui_, Sheriff. That yankee, he ain't goin' nowhere. _Bonne nuit_."

"_Bonne nuit_."

Jim heard the outer door close, then the sound of Jean-Denis settling in at the desk. Well, West thought, so the Colonel had once again made his invisible presence known. And if the sheriff just heading home for bed was the infamous Henri Boirot - and the man's voice was unmistakable - that meant Jim had been brought back to Belle Fleur. And _that _meant spending yet another night in the saddle to return to Lagniappe in time to keep his appointment with Artie in the morning. Great.

Still, he now knew without a doubt that Boirot was working for the Colonel. Pity this Colonel wanted Jim to sit in jail and cool his heels for a few days though, because that wasn't going to happen. Artie would be looking for him in the morning, and Jim had no intention of keeping his partner waiting.

West glanced around the cellblock. There was a second cell beside the one he'd awakened in, but it was empty. Except for Jean-Denis out there in the office, he was apparently alone. So the question was, should he go out through the office and likely get into a fight with Jean-Denis, or find a way to exit from inside the cellblock? There was the barred window, and a bit of explosive in his boot heel. Hmm…

…

Jean-Denis was leaning back in the chair with his feet up on the Sheriff's desk, nearly asleep, when he heard a clang from within the cellblock. That sounded like a cell door being shut! How could that be? He leapt from the chair, grabbed his gun and the keys, unlocked the door into the cellblock, and cautiously peered inside.

Something struck him on the back of the neck and he crumpled gracelessly to the floor. "_Bonne nuit_," said James West as he shoved the man inside the cellblock, taking from him both the gun and the keys. He locked Jean-Denis inside, then gathered up his own gun belt and hat, and after a glance outside to see if the coast was clear, he headed for the livery to collect Blackjack and be on his way.


	12. Three, middle of the night

**Three, middle of the night ~~~**

At some point I rolled over and the light of the lamp, still full on, shone into my face and woke me up. I rose and crossed to it, turning it down low. In the dimmer light I turned back to my pallet, then stopped instead and gazed down on Artémus. On my friend - but I had not been treating him as a friend, had I? I stood there in thought, running through my head all that he had said that had so offended me. He was right, I conceded. At least, he was right that he must not talk of such things in the hearing of _le colonel _and his men. But I would do nothing that would cause him harm in order to silence him! I rummaged through my mind, trying to think of some other action I might take to quiet him, but nothing came to me. Yet. Perhaps later I would think of something.

In the meantime, here was Artémus. He was sound asleep, sitting propped up against the wall with his left leg drawn up and his right stretched out. The blankets were tossed aside and a damp rag was draped over his brow. He had last dealt with fever then, I surmised.

I went to him now and began tidying him up. The damp rag I plucked off his head and tossed back into the bucket. Then I found his other rag and made sure he was well dried off in anticipation of the chills soon to come. I next picked up the blankets and wrapped them around him as best I could. "Here is Abishag," I said to the sleeping man softly as I sat down beside him and slipped myself under his arm.

I was right on time, for just moments later he began to shiver. He gave a moan in his sleep and his arm convulsed around me as the chills overwhelmed him. I burrowed against him and held him tight, willing him warm.

After a while the shivering lessened, then ended. His whole body relaxed, as did I. Now he stirred, beginning to awaken. The arm that was around me stretched out, then came back in and found me there at his side. "Hmm? Who…?" he said. He looked down at me in puzzlement. I looked up at him and saw the mad gleam in his eye. Uh-oh.

A delighted smile suffused his face. "Well! Hello, beautiful!" With a soft whistle, he added, "What did I do to wake up with an angel like you in my arms?" He beamed down at me happily.

"_Comment vous appellez-vous?" _I asked politely, wondering if this new version of _mon ami _would have lost his French like little Reggie had.

But no. He replied, "Oh, we didn't get around to introductions then?" and with a winsome smile informed me, "My name is Artemus Gordon. And what's yours, darlin'?"

How curious! He was himself this time, and yet he did not know me!

"I am Serafina," I said.

"Mmm, Serafina…" he echoed me, drawing out each syllable of my name. "Aren't you just luscious?" he added. Gently, smoothly, his arm drew me still closer, while the fingers of his other hand brushed over my cheek. Smiling broadly, he tipped his head to one side, gave me a big-eyed puppy-dog look, and whispered, "May I?"

I frowned. "May you what?"

The corners of his eyes crinkled. He looked deeply into my eyes, then flicked his gaze down at… at what? at my mouth? and back up to my eyes again. Again he made that puppy-eyed look at me, obviously expecting me to understand what he meant. But I had no idea!

His hand brushed my cheek again, and this time his thumb strayed out and stroked lightly over my lips. Suddenly I comprehended what he had in mind. "What," I said, "you mean, kiss me?"

Now his whole face crinkled joyously. His mad eyes dancing, he said, "Why, darlin', I thought you'd never ask!" Slipping his hand under my chin, he lifted my face to his and kissed me.

Well, it wasn't _il signore's _kiss at least. I had started to stiffen up, even to draw back my hand to slap him yet again, anticipating slobberiness, fright and disgust. But this was… it was… it was something entirely different. Warm and tender, gentle and sweet. I watched his face, what I could see of it, as he kissed me, feeling the way his lips pressed in gently against mine. There was a small flutter in my stomach; I wasn't sure why.

"Mmm…" he sighed as he leaned back. He looked down at me, then chuckled and said, "Now, Serafina darlin', don't you know you're supposed to close your eyes when you're being kissed?" With a magnificent smile he said, "Looks like we have to try that again."

His own eyes closing, he bowed over me and kissed me again. This was more intriguing than the first. I could feel the breath of his nostrils caressing my cheek, and found that I myself was breathing faster. Why was that? What was happening? I stared at him, my eyes wide, as I felt my brain within my head turning to mush.

Sighing, he leaned back happily, looked into my face, said, "Why, you're still…!" Again he chuckled, then locked his eyes on mine piercingly as he recited to me, his voice rich and warm and deep:

"_And then I shut her wild wild eyes  
With kisses four."_

He suited action to the words, and once my eyes were closed, he whispered, "_Now_," and kissed me for a third time.

This was the most fascinating yet. With my eyes shut, the world had disappeared. There was nothing else, only the kiss, the touch of his mouth on mine, and the embrace of his arms around me. Dizziness washed over me and I found myself clinging to him, afraid I might otherwise topple over. All that was within me was melting like butter. When had the room become so warm?

The kiss disappeared then. I leaned forward, puzzled, trying to find it again. Oh, there it was, on my cheek. I heard his warm chuckle and the kiss reappeared on my lips briefly, then headed off across my cheek again until it reached my earlobe, which he gently tugged at - with his teeth.

My eyes flew open.

And now his mouth dropped a couple of inches lower and he began nibbling at the side of my neck.

"What are you doing?" I whispered, my voice high and tight, my hand once again making ready to slap him.

"Why, kissing you, darlin'," he replied. "I thought you liked it. Didn't we…?" He leaned back and looked at me. "Is something wrong, Serafina? You look like… like… like you've never been…" Suddenly his eyes opened wide. "…like you've never been kissed before!" For the first time, I think, he looked at me and actually saw _me_. Taking hold of my shoulders, he pressed me back from him by a few inches so that he could get a better view of me. His eyes swept over me, giving me a once-over - twice. And now he whispered, "Oh no. No no no no no… Oh, Serafina, I am so sorry. Obviously I have jumped to a very wrong conclusion here! How… how old are you, little one?"

This question again! I answered him briefly.

He frowned, his hand coming up to his face, a finger thumping at his nose as he gave this some thought. "Well, she can't be more than, oh, fifteen or sixteen," he told himself. "But what on earth…?" He ruminated a bit longer, then glanced at me and said, "Oh, come here, sweetheart. Don't be afraid. Ol' Uncle Artie's not gonna scare you anymore." He put his arm around me and patted me comfortingly. The feeling of his arm around me now was far different from the feeling a few minutes before, and I was surprised to find that I was not sure which I preferred. "I won't hurt you, baby, not for the world. Are you all right, sweetie?"

"_Oui, m'sieur," _I said.

"Oh, that's right, you're a French girl. _Je te prie pardon, ma petite. Mais… Je ne comprends pas. Pour quoi…?"_

"My English is good, _m'sieur_," I interrupted him.

"Oh. Yes. Yes, of course it is. But explain to me, Serafina. I don't understand. When I woke up with you in my arms, I thought… well, never mind what I thought. But tell me: Why were you in my arms?"

"To keep you warm, _m'sieur_."

"Warm? But it's not cold in here. And I have a blanket. No, two blankets."

"It is because you have been having chills, _m'sieur_."

"Chills…" He shook his head. "I don't remember chills. In… In fact…" His eyes went hollow. "Serafina, I… I don't remember anything. Except for my own name, I remember nothing! Nothing at all before the point when I woke up and found you here. Am I…?" He stared at me, his face devastated. "Do I have amnesia?"

"_Je regrete, mon ami. _I do not know that word."

"Am I sick?"

"Indeed you are, Artémus, with chills and fever."

He gave me a sudden sharp look. "You're a bit young to be calling a grown man by his first name. Shouldn't you call me 'Mr Gordon'?"

"_Je regrete," _I apologized promptly. "I do not understand, though. It is not proper that I should call you by your first name, yet there is nothing wrong with you calling me 'darlin' and 'baby' and 'sweetie'?"

"Well, of course not, because I, uh… I mean… Well, because…" At last he spread his hands. "All right, point conceded. But you said that I have chills and fever. And delirium as well?"

I sighed. _"Je regrete…" _I began.

"Oh, you don't know that word either? It means… Well, have I been out of my head?"

"_Bien sûr_," I said, wondering if it would be wise to inform him that he was out of his head currently, even as we were speaking.

A few moments later though, the question became moot. As he was asking me, "Just how long have I been si…?" his skin flushed red and he threw off the blankets as the fever hit him full force. I sprang toward the bucket to get a rag for him, then began to bathe his face.

"Oh, that's a blessing," he whispered. "_Merci_, Chipmunk."

I smiled. If I was Chipmunk again, then he was himself now. "_De rien_," I responded. I continued to tend to him until the fever passed for the moment. Then, kneeling before him, I said, "Artémus?"

"_Oui?"_

I dropped my eyes and said, "_Je vous prie pardon. _I was very unkind to you earlier."

"_Je te pardonne_, Serafina. I'm sorry I had to upset you with what I needed to tell you. And…" He tipped my chin up and looked me in the eye. "You will obey me about this?"

I leaned against him and laid my head on his chest, saying nothing, neither a Yes nor a No. After a moment of silence, he wrapped his arms around me and said nothing as well.

I hope, I thought to myself, that it will never come to that, that I will never be forced to choose whether to obey him or not. And I also… oh, I hope I never have to tell him about this other Artémus who kissed me!


	13. Four, morning

**Four, morning ~~~**

Sheriff Henri Boirot whistled merrily as he strutted along the street and took the two steps up to his office door in one long stride. He fitted the key into the lock.

_Tiens_, why was the door unlocked? He threw it open and stepped in, peering about the office. Where was Jean-Denis? And where... where were the things that belonged to the yankee?

With an oath on his lips, Boirot charged across the room to the cellblock door. _Hein_, _that _was locked! The key, where was it? Ah, the ring of keys for the cellblock lay on the floor under the desk. Boirot retrieved it and fumbled the key into the lock, then shoved that door open as well.

A man was sitting on the bed inside one of the jail cells, rubbing at the back of his neck. The cell door stood open, and Boirot instantly and instinctively clanged it shut.

"_Mais non!_" cried the prisoner inside. "C'mon, Sheriff, _c'est moi! _It's Jean-Denis! Don't lock me in!"

Now the sheriff took a good look at the man and recognized his deputy. He started to unlock the cell, then thought better of it. "If you cannot keep the yankee in this cage, then you can live in it yourself for a while!" he fumed at the younger man. "Now, tell me what happen!"

With great chagrin, Jean-Denis told his boss the tale. Boirot's face worked as he listened. Once the deputy admitted to waking up locked in the cellblock after the yankee's escape, the sheriff growled with fury and slammed a hand against an iron bar of the jail cell. He then wheeled about and stalked outside to glare at the town of Belle Fleur in general. That yankee, he was more trouble than he was worth!

And now, because of the yankee, Boirot himself was in trouble. _Le colonel _was not going to like this, _bien sûr_, he was not!

…

_Le colonel's _face was like a storm cloud as he rode into the yard. He vaulted off his horse, tossed the reins to Louis-le-Maigre, then stomped into the house. Seeing the red-haired woman in the kitchen cooking the breakfast, he growled at her, "Flambeau! _Allez-vous en! _Attend to the prisoner."

Startled, she moved the skillet off the fire and headed deeper into the house.

"Guidreau!" _le colonel _now bellowed.

His right-hand man emerged from the shadows where he had been watching the girl. "_Oui, mon colonel?_"

_Le colonel _jerked his head toward the yard and both went outside again. With a ferocious scowl, _le colonel _snarled, "That Boirot is an idiot! He has let the yankee escape him!"

"You wish me to capture him then? Like the other?"

_Le colonel _shook his head. "_Non_. Already many attempts have been made to capture him and, one way or another, all have failed. I wish now for you to rid me of him, Guidreau."

"Ah! _Oui, mon colonel!_"

"However," _le colonel _added, "he has been asking questions all through the bayou. If any have answered his questions," he said, his cold black eyes glinting, "I wish to know their names. _Vous comprenez_."

Guidreau smiled a wicked smile. "_Oui, mon colonel_. First interrogate, then eliminate."

…

It was late morning when Jim arrived back in Lagniappe. He glanced over at the saloon where a couple of workmen were busily replacing one of the posts for the porch roof. Hitching Blackjack at the railing before the hotel, Jim entered and crossed to the front desk. The clerk gave him a fishy look when he asked for Alain Le Grand, but told him the number and sent him on up. Jim found the proper room and knocked.

No answer.

He knocked again, calling out softly, "Artie?" When there was still no answer, he pulled out his lock pick and in a matter of seconds had the door open.

Hmm. No one was in the room, and it was apparent that no one had been there in about half a week, he estimated. So where was Artie?

Jim crossed to the dresser and looked through it briefly, quickly finding what he had expected: an envelope addressed to "_Mon Frère_." He lifted it and looked it over. It seemed to be intact; there were no signs it had been steamed open and resealed. He opened it and pulled out the two pages it contained.

The first was a cover sheet, which read:

Bonjour, _Jacques! When you see _ma chère _Suzette, please do place the enclosed_ lettre _into her fair hands._

A bien tôt,

_Alain_

Jim glanced over the second sheet, which started with "Ah, Suzette, _ma chérie_, how intensely I despise every second which keeps us apart! How I long to gaze upon…" and went on and on, the flowing handwriting covering both the front and the back of the page, ending with a double row of X's and O's, and a flourishing "_A toi pour toujours, ton _Alain."

Jim chuckled and dropped Artie's exercise in purple prose back onto the dresser, then pulled out a match. Lighting the lamp, he carefully passed the nearly blank cover sheet over the flame, making sure to expose all the surface to the heat while also making sure he didn't catch the page on fire. Slowly but surely, brown letters began to appear on the paper:

_Jim. I'm on the trail of someone known as _le colonel._ Have made arrangements to be guided through the bayou. Should know more by the time we meet in three days. In the meantime, try the _beignets _at the little restaurant down the street, Emil's. Tell Lizette the waitress that Alain Le Grand sent you. Artie._

Jim read the paper over again, then lit it and laid it in the ashtray. Once he was sure it was completely reduced to ashes, he headed out the door to sample Emil's _beignets_.

…

My friend Artémus was sleeping, for the most part, when I checked on him throughout the day, which at least gave me the opportunity to get my housework done. And when he was not asleep, more often than not, he was not himself. I learned quickly to check his eyes, for if they were wide open and gleaming, it was generally a good idea for me to introduce myself right away, as he otherwise would have no idea who I was, nor I who he was.

The variety of people he might wake up as astounded me: French, German, Spanish, Mexican, Russian, Italian, Jewish, British, Scottish, Irish. Not that I recognized most of those; I would have to wait until he was himself again and then quote what his other self had said to me to learn what sort of man I had been talking to. The Irishman though - Kevin O'Reilly he was, with a lovely lilt to his voice that was vaguely and achingly familiar - him I could have sat with and listened to for hours! But that was not how it worked. He, like all the rest, disappeared again shortly. Each of the strangers who were _mon ami _would depart when the chills hit or the fever, or else when the man simply fell back into sleep. Or, as on a few occasions, when I took enough offense at the man he had become and slapped him into vanishing.

That did not happen often, I am glad to say. Most of his other selves were gentlemanly and interesting, even fascinating. And each different. After introducing myself, I would usually ask the newcomer for a name, and each gave me one, and each was unique, never a repeat in the troupe. Even when another Italian appeared, an opera singer named Licciardello, he was not the same man as _il signore_, much to my delight. I knew _Signor _Licciardello was an opera singer only because he told me: "I sing opera." And when I confessed that I did not know what opera was, he obliged by demonstrating, filling the room with his voice as I sat on the other pallet watching and listening, his stunned audience of one.

From him I learned to clap enthusiastically and cry out "Bravo!" to show my appreciation. I was not quite sure about some of his high notes nor some of his low ones, but I found him charming and would not have minded him showing up again. But he did not. Not one of them ever appeared more than once.

I became glad of that after I met Baron Rolfe, one of the Germans. At first I found the deep purr of his voice appealing, but once I realized just what was smoldering in his eyes - and I realized that when he attempted to do what _il signore _had done - well, one resounding slap later and Baron Rolfe made a quick and permanent exit.

Utterly baffling to me was the Frenchman Michel Thibault, for he spoke no English whatsoever, the complete opposite of little Reggie. And I wondered anew: how could the man do that? How could he lose a language which he had previously been able to speak, and which later on when he was someone else, he would have no trouble speaking again? I could not fathom it. And yet if I forgot myself and used English with _M'sieur _Thibault, he was prompt to remind me, _"Mais non, ma jeune fille, je ne parle pas l'anglais. Seulement le français, s'il te plaît."_

The strangest - oh, the strangest was surely Mother Reynolds. It was a bit horrifying, seeing this man become a woman so, and yet I found I could not look away. Somehow my friend lost himself in the personage of a little old widow woman. She was the only woman who ever appeared, and I, I was glad of that!

On occasion he did not seem to be a particular character at all. It was these times that he would wake up reciting. I rarely could make head or tail of the figurative language, but I did try to do as _mon ami _had advised me, to cultivate the auditory memory by retaining as least some of what he was saying. For my own part, I found I enjoyed just sitting there and letting his voice ring off the walls, washing over me and into me, filling me up with phrases that hinted at thoughts I had never before known existed.

And then there was Dr Hayward Stone. I am not sure what he was talking about either - something called the libration of the moon? - but in only a very few minutes, I was yawning and dozing off. How could a man be so fascinating when he was some people and so boring when he was others?

He was Sir Trevor Clive-Montague, a man who said things like "Tally-ho!" and "Ride to the hounds!" He was Cactus Sam, an old desert rat who gave the impression of having no teeth left in his jaw and who called me "little missie" and laughed his head off at his own jokes, none of which were funny. He was an Indian named Bear Claw, and another time an Indian of a different kind named Rajneeshee Chowdary. He was Jock MacRimmon, and Montmorency Jones, Ole Torvald and Boris Strenko, Pablo Sanchez and Ludwig Hahn. I was amazed at all the people he could be. If this was what he was like when he was sick, what was the man when he was completely well?


	14. Four, midday

**Four, midday ~~~**

Artie might just have been exaggerating when he referred to Emil's as a restaurant. A hole-in-the-wall would have described it better. Jim walked in and every eye in the place turned to him, all of them belonging to the half dozen rough characters sitting at two of the three round tables in the tiny building. Jim smiled and nodded pleasantly at them, then took the open table.

Moments later a waitress appeared from the back. Well, plainly Artie's eye for the ladies had not failed him! She was a fetching little thing, curvy in all the right places, with a sweet face, big beautiful eyes, and jet black hair that made little curls all along her cheeks, framing her face. She looked at the new customer, smiled and patted at her hair, then came to his table and said, "_Bonjour, m'sieur_. What can I get you?"

"The name of this vision of loveliness before me would be a good start," said Jim. The warmth in his eyes certainly contributed to the flush that was creeping over the young woman's features.

Dimpling prettily, she dropped her eyes and patted at her hair again. "My name is Lizette," she said. Taking a notepad and pencil from her apron pocket, she asked, "And what is your pleasure, _m'sieur?_"

The risqué twinkle that popped up in Jim's eye caused her to rethink her question. "_C'est… c'est à dire_… I mean to say… What, what would you like to order?"

"Well, Miss Lizette, my good friend Alain Le Grand recommended I come by and try the _beignets_," Jim told her.

And once again, his words brought about a complete change in a woman's demeanor. Suddenly nervous, she shot a furtive glance at the other customers, then nodded and said, "_Oui, m'sieur_, I will bring you _les beignets_. Ah!" The notepad abruptly fell from her hand and she crouched by the table to retrieve it. As she did so, without looking at him, she whispered to Jim, "_Allez-vous, m'sieur! _Get out of here now!"

"Why?" Jim asked softly.

"Because I do not think the other customers are fond of your friend _M'sieur _Le Grand!" She snatched up the notepad and beat a hasty retreat through the back door into the kitchen.

The legs of a chair scraped across the wooden floor, followed by several more chairs moving. Slowly the six big toughs came over and surrounded Jim's table. One of them, obviously the spokesman for the group, popped one fist into his opposite palm and said, "_Allo_, yankee." Glancing around at his _confrères_, he went on with, "Folks round these parts, we don't like the yankee. _Comprenez-vous?_"

"Yes, I understand," said Jim evenly. "What does that have to do with me? I just came to sample the _beignets_."

The spokesman planted his beefy hands on the edge of the table and leaned forward. "You gonna sample more than _beignets_, yankee! You ever hear of the knuckle sandwich, _hein?_"

Jim West met the big fellow's gaze steadily - and abruptly shoved his side of the table upward. With the big fellow's weight still pressing down on the far side, the table flipped, sending that man sprawling.

The five other toughs jumped back, stunned, as their leader hit the floor and the upended table landed on top of him, clonking him on the head. Now Jim West's chair was on the move as he sprang to his feet, grabbing the chair and flinging it at the men to his left as he turned his attention and his fists toward the men on his right. He got in a good one-two combination on the nearest man, sending him also to the floor, before his element of surprise wore off and somebody tackled him.

They went rolling across the floor and into another table, the other three trailing after them to call out encouragement to their comrade. He grinned as he managed to come out on top and balled his fist to slug the yankee in the jaw. His fist never landed though, for Jim brought up his two hands and boxed both his opponent's ears hard. Howling, the man threw his hands over his ears, barely noticing when Jim shoved him aside.

West now bounded up to his feet. The other three locals shared a shocked glance among them, then lunged at the stranger in their midst, hurling him and themselves onto the one remaining table. It collapsed under them all.

From out of the kitchen rushed a small man with a mustache half as big as he was. "_Mes tables! Mon bistro! Vandales! Allez-vous en, vous tous!_" he cried, hopping up and down in his rage. "_Allez-vous en!_"

One of the locals grabbed up a chair and flung it at James West. West dodged, and the chair came within a hair of hitting the mustache man. He shrieked, yelled a few more choice words at the combatants, then escaped back into the kitchen.

Someone seized West by the collar and punched him in the jaw. West struck back and the two grappled for a bit, each raining blows on the other. Jim at last belted the man solidly in the gut, sending him to his knees. As he sank down, he clutched at Jim's leg and tried to trip him. Jim didn't quite lose his balance, but having to shake off that fellow's grasp delayed him long enough for one of the others to snatch up a leg that had broken off a table and come after West.

Jim kicked himself free and ducked as the fellow took a walloping cut at him. The leg passed harmlessly over Jim's head as one of Jim's fists crashed into the man's ribs. The fellow nearly dropped the leg, shifted his grip on it, and now tried to pound West into the floor with the length of wood. As the table leg came down, Jim's foot came up. His enemy howled, the piece of wood clattering to the floor as the man cradled his broken wrist.

The sixth and final man looked around at his bested _camarades_, then glared at Jim. With a screech of defiance, he rushed at Jim head first, driving him back. Both tripped over one of the fallen and landed hard in the middle of the floor, slugging it out until West cracked him one across the jaw that put him out for the count.

Panting, Jim came to his feet and surveyed the wreckage. He retrieved his hat, brushed the dust off it, then straightened his vest and jacket and headed for the door.

Now the spokesman rose up, slinging the fog out of his head. Seeing the yankee in front of him with his back turned, the big guy grinned and charged at him. West heard the oncoming sound and pivoted, then slipped to one side, grabbed at the behemoth as he was passing, and just gave him a little extra boost. The big fellow went on through the restaurant's closed door with an almighty crash, bouncing off the board sidewalk to land in the dusty street. Slinging his head once more, he planted his hands on the ground and tried to push himself upright again.

He failed.

The little man with the huge mustache peeked out from the kitchen, flung his hands to his cheeks, and let loose a heartfelt lamentation over the state of his restaurant.

"Sorry about the mess," said Jim. He tossed the little man a coin and left.

…

Jim returned to Artie's hotel room and made good use of the basin and water at the washstand. As he doctored the handful of lacerations he had taken in the fight, he thought over the invisible message Artie had left him. "Hmm," said Jim to his reflection in the mirror. "Not only did I not have a chance to speak to the girl, I didn't even get to try the _beignets_."

There was a knock at the door. Making sure he had a derringer in hand, Jim crossed to the door, listened briefly, then flung it open.

"Oh!" Lizette the waitress was standing on the other side, one hand lifted to knock again, a small basket over her other arm. "Oh, _m'sieur! _I did not think…"

"Did not think what?" said Jim as he seized her arm and hauled her into the room, closing the door behind her.

"I… I came here to look for _M'sieur _Le Grand, to tell him I was not able to speak to the stranger he sent to me. I did not think you would be here. But where…" She glanced around the otherwise empty room. "Where is _M'sieur _Le Grand?"

"Not here," said Jim shortly.

"I see that," she replied. "In fact, I did not expect the room still to be his, but I knew of nowhere else to look for him. I have not seen him in days." Again she glanced around the room, then crossed to the closet and peered inside. "His clothing is still here."

"Yes. He hasn't checked out. Why did he send me to speak with you?"

"Shh. Not here. First you must take me home."

"Oh?" One of Jim's eyebrow arched as that risqué sparkle bloomed to life in his eyes again.

"_Oui, m'sieur_, to speak with my father."

"Oh. Your father," he repeated.

"Ah, _oui_. That is what _M'sieur _Le Grand told me. If anyone came into Emil's and asked for _beignets_, mentioning his name, I was to bring that man home to see my father. You see, _M'sieur _Le Grand himself spoke with Papa several times before he… _bien_, before I _thought _he left town." She looked around the room another time, her eyes troubled. "_Tiens_, I hope nothing bad has happened to him!"

"You and me both," said Jim. "Let's go then."

She nodded and followed him to the door.

"By the way," Jim asked her, "what's in the basket?"

"Your _beignets, bien sûr_," she replied.

…

Jim reined up the black stallion and the girl slipped off from behind him to open the gate. He rode on into the yard of the tidy farmhouse while Lizette hurried up onto the porch and threw open the door. "Papa!" she called. "Papa! _Il y a ici quelqu'un de vous voir _- there is someone here to see you!"

As Jim dismounted and wrapped the reins around the hitching rail, a tall old man emerged from the house, accompanied by…

"_Non! Non, il est ici! Non, non, non!_"

It was the little mustache man from the restaurant. Holding his head between his two hands, his eyes bulging, his lips quivering, he babbled rapidly at the tall old man, who waved him to silence, then questioned Lizette.

The conversation was at least nine-tenths in French, but Jim followed it well enough to know that he was the topic, and the fight in the restaurant the subject. At length the tall man said something placating to the little one and sent him off. Giving Jim West a wide berth, the mustache man got into his small wagon and drove away.

"That is our cousin, Emil Bourguignon," Lizette explained. "The owner of the restaurant."

"Or what is left of it," the old man corrected.

"And this is my father," the girl continued. "René Fillion. Papa, this is James West." She added a bit more in French which, Jim noted, included his partner's current alias. Her father frowned slightly at that name. He stood for a moment in thought before nodding. "_Entrez-vous_," he said to Jim and led the way inside.

Papa Fillion waved Jim to a chair as he took his own, then spoke a few words to Lizette. Leaving the basket of _beignets _on a table, she disappeared deeper into the house. "You know Alain Le Grand, _hein?_" said the old man.

"Yes sir. He sent me to speak with you."

"You know why?"

Meeting Fillion's eyes steadily, West said, "The Nealey murders."

The old man snorted. "Nealey. We know nothing 'bout those Nealeys, us. It is the murder of my _son_, that is why Le Grand send you here to speak to me." He nodded and poked a finger into his own chest. "_Oui_, he send you here because all the others here in the bayou, they do what _le colonel _tell 'em, or they turn their backs and see nothing. But me, I hate _le colonel_. And I tell you why."

He leaned forward and jerked his head toward the back of the house where Lizette had gone. "That _ma fille_, the last of _mes enfants_. Some, they die of disease, or this, or that. But _mon fils _Eduard, that not how he die. He was one of _le colonel's _men, you see. He do whatever _le colonel _tell him, he did. And then one day that Guidreau, _le colonel's _right-hand man, he come riding up to the house, and he throw onto the porch three things: Eduard's two boots and his hat. And Guidreau say to us that _pauvre _Eduard, a gator got him. He grin at us, that evil scar-faced man, and I know from his grin that the gator that got my son stand on two legs and got a scar 'cross his face." He sat up straight now and squared his shoulders. "And so, _M'sieur _West, anything you wanna know about _le colonel_, you ask me and I tell you, same as I tell _M'sieur _Le Grand." With a frown, he added, "_Mais tiens! _Where is _M'sieur _Le Grand, _hein?_"


	15. Four, afternoon into evening

**Four, afternoon into evening ~~~**

He was sitting against the wall as usual, his head propped on his hand, his eyes closed, when I came into the cell to check on him after washing the dishes and hanging out the laundry. Thinking he was napping, I began to leave as quietly as I had come in, when his voice echoed through the room. "I was not informed that I have a new student."

His voice was deeper than usual, resonant, commanding. Wondering who he was now, I responded with, _"Pardonnez-moi, m'sieur. _I did not mean to disturb you."

"Nonsense. A new student is not a disturbance. Come and let me have a look at you. I am Professor Maximilian Orwell. And you, my dear…?"

"I am Serafina."

"Serafina. Have you no last name?"

I started to tell him that this was indeed the case, when inspiration struck me. Lifting my chin, I declared myself to be, "Serafina Le Grand."

"Ah, I see. Very well, then, Miss Le Grand, recite for me."

"Recite, _m'sieur?"_

"But of course. I am a professor of elocution, the art of speaking well. Surely if you wish to learn from me, you must have some poem or speech or soliloquy in mind. Recite for me!"

Oh. Rummaging quickly through the things I had heard Artémus perform in his madness, I plucked out one I was fairly certain I knew all the way through and began to quote it exactly the way I had heard _mon ami _say it:

_To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,  
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day  
To the last syllable of recorded time,  
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools  
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!  
Life's__…_

I left off then, realizing that the professor had been waving his hand at me. _"M'sieur?" _I asked.

He shook his head. "While it is commendable for you to take a selection from the Bard, and your interpretation was, oh, passable, I must object to your choice of a masculine monologue! What of this, also from the Scottish play, in which Lady MacBeth declares…" And his voice filled the room with:

_I have given suck, and know  
How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me:  
I would, while it was smiling in my face,  
Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums,  
And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you  
Have done to this. _

I stared at him. _"C'est terrible!"_

"I beg your pardon, my dear young lady," he said, obviously irritated by my criticism. "That is _art _- and performed to perfection!"

"I don't mean how you recited it. I mean… Oh! But what a terrible thing! She would kill a baby, her own child?"

"Ah," he said, relaxing again. "But that speech develops the character of Lady MacBeth, you see, showing how ruthless she is. Still…" He looked me over. "You are quite young yet to interpret Lady MacBeth. Perhaps something lighter." He gave it some thought, then said, "Here. The Persian poet Saadi. Attend to this, then repeat it back to me." And now he lifted his voice and declaimed:

_If of thy mortal goods thou art bereft,  
And from thy slender store two loaves alone to thee are left,  
Sell one, and with the dole,  
Buy hyacinths to feed thy soul._

Well, that was pretty, I thought, and short as well. I parroted it back to him. He winced, and began correcting everything about me: the way I stood, the softness of my voice, even my accent! When he at last seemed to have run out of the things I had done wrong, I ventured to ask him, _"M'sieur?"_

"I'll remind you that you are to address me as Professor," he responded.

"Ah. _Oui_. Professor?"

"Yes, Miss Le Grand?"

"Please, what are hyacinths?"

His eyebrows arched. "What, you've never seen hyacinths?"

I lifted my shoulders briefly. How would I know if I had ever seen them?

"Hyacinths are beautiful flowers, my dear Miss Le Grand. Each plant has dozens of fragrant blossoms growing on a single spike, and they come in a dizzying variety of colors."

"And the soul? What is that?"

He looked at me strangely, then shook his head. "Someone has been grossly neglecting your education, my dear. The soul: that is what you are."

I looked down at myself. "This?"

He sighed patiently. "I apologize. I did not make myself clear. You are speaking of the physical you, your body. I was speaking of the spiritual you, that which cannot be seen nor touched." He paused. "In the poem, there are two loaves of bread. The loaf that is retained is used to feed the physical body. You understand? While the loaf that is sold to buy the hyacinths, that is to feed the soul, to feed one's hunger for beauty. The physical body needs food and drink, but the spiritual self, the inner man, must be fed with beauty. Where there is no beauty, the soul withers and dies, and what is left is a mere beast, hardly worth being called a human being. Do you understand now, Miss Le Grand?"

Slowly I nodded, for I was thinking of _le colonel _and his men. And of myself as well, before my friend Artémus entered my life.

…

Papa Fillion had given West much valuable information about the highwaymen operating in the bayous. Around the end of the War, the old man had told him, once it was becoming clear which side would win and which would lose, a certain Colonel Georges Bonhomme had led his men to desert the Confederate Army. Returning home, they had become renegades preying on travelers throughout this part of Louisiana. Often one of the men would offer himself as a guide through the bayous, only to lead the travelers who had hired him into a trap so that the colonel and his men could rob them, then kill them. Papa Fillion had told West as much as he could about the marauders, especially their names. What he could not tell the lawman, however, was the one thing West wanted most to know: where to find them. Eduard had kept that a secret from his father. Papa Fillion could only wish West _bon chance _in finding the place. And Jim had concluded that to find Colonel Bonhomme's refuge would be to find Artie as well. And so he set out to search the bayou systematically, one road after the next, checking every square foot he could find before the Colonel's ruthless band could conclude that they were better off with Artie dead rather instead of alive.

…

That night I awoke with a hand pressed over my mouth and a voice whispering into my ear, "Where is he?"

I froze. This voice was very deep, and not one I recognized at all. Now it spoke again, "You promise not to scream?"

I nodded. The hand came off my mouth and I whispered, "Where is who?"

"Artie. Where's Artie? I'm looking for Artemus Gordon."

Where is…? I glanced around the room. Indeed, where _was _my friend? Then I looked into the face of the man kneeling beside me, and stared. "Who are you?" I asked.

"My name is James West," he replied. "I'm looking for my partner, Artemus Gordon."

I clamped my mouth shut to swallow down the bark of laughter that threatened to burst forth. For I recognized the man here at my side. He was not looking for Artémus; he _was _Artémus! The madness had come over him, and now he thought he was his hoped-for partner, Jim West.

"Where is he?" he asked me again urgently.

_Tiens_, what was I to answer him? I was used to playing along with the many persons Artémus would become, but what was I to do now? "I… I do not know," I said at last. "He was here when I fell asleep."

He sat back on his heels, holding himself very erect as he glanced around the room again, his posture speaking of a man of great athletic powers. "They must have taken him somewhere else then," he said. "But where?"

I said nothing. After a moment he looked at me and repeated the question. "I… I do not know, _m'sieur_," I responded. "I assumed you were thinking aloud. This room is the only one in the house with a lock on the door."

He nodded. "That's why I picked the lock." His hand flipped up the lapel of his jacket and he felt along the underside for a moment, then frowned. "What happened to my lock pick?" He made a quick survey of the floor around him, then said, "Doesn't matter. I have some explosive in my boot." And now he tugged at the heel of his boot and frowned again. "Why won't the heel come off? Has someone been tampering with my boots?"

"Explosive?" I asked. "But what would you do with explosive?"

"Blow open the door," he said matter-of-factly.

"_Tiens! _There is no need for that! I have the key."

"You do?" He looked me over. "Who are you, the jail keeper's daughter?"

"I… Something like that."

He gave me a small smile. "Trust Artie to find the one pretty girl in the place! Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"To find Artie, of course." He came to his feet in a single fluid motion, then immediately shifted his weight to his left foot as he frowned down at his right. "What's wrong with my ankle?" he said.

"It is injured," I informed him.

"Injured? How? I don't remember getting hurt. For that matter…" Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. "Why is it so hot in here suddenly? I…" Slowly he sank to his knees as his whole face contracted into a grimace, his hands rising to his head. "Hot…" he whispered.

I leapt for the bucket and got him a cooling rag. He smiled and whispered, "Thank you," as I pressed it to his face. Then his body relaxed completely as he sank into sleep.


	16. Five & Six

**Five & Six ~~~**

The days were blending together as Jim searched. Along this road, turn into that path, backtracking whenever the bayou closed in around him and blocked his way. He moved as fast as he was able, avoiding various new attempts to waylay him. He didn't have time to waste. He could almost feel time running out on him as he searched. He needed to find Artie, and soon!

…

Folding my hands as Professor Orwell had taught me, I recited to Artémus:

_Stanley was a chemist.  
Now Stanley is no more,  
For what he thought was H__2__O  
Was H__2__SO__4__._

I finished the poem and curtseyed, also something the Professor had taught me to do. My friend stared at me for a long time, then rolled his eyes and muttered, "Oh no! I told you that one?"

"_Oui_. What does it mean?" I asked.

"Well, the letters and numbers are chemical formulae. H2O is ordinary water, which is perfectly safe to drink, while H2SO4 is oil of vitriol, also known as sulfuric acid, which is deadly to drink. Depending on the concentration, oil of vitriol can look and smell like water, so it's no wonder ol' Stanley got confused."

"The poor man!"

"Oh, don't worry, Serafina. It's just a bit of doggerel."

"What is that?"

"Well, I mean that it's a silly rhyme. And it's a made-up story. There was no Stanley. No one died."

"Ah!" That was a relief! After a bit more thought, I asked, "Then why make up the rhyme?"

He shrugged. "I suppose as a warning to would-be chemists not to drink things in the lab."

"And what are chemists? What is a lab?"

His eyes lit up. "Oh, a lab is one of my favorite places on earth, Serafina!" And he spent quite a while happily describing to me a great number of his fond memories of experiments and inventions and even laboratory accidents, while I sat before him speechless, soaking it all in. Oh, I thought later as I curled up on my pallet and drifted off to sleep, if only somehow I too could spend endless days in a lab!

…

Guidreau was growing more frustrated by the hour. Every attempt he and his men had made to take the yankee had failed. No man can be that clever! he fumed. And if it was not the yankee overcoming the efforts to capture him, it was the man's horse foiling them! The devil-horse some of the men had begun to call that big black stallion, and Guidreau could not blame them. The horse was a devil, _bien sûr_, the same as its owner.

The yankee is clever, thought Guidreau, so I must be more so. I must think…

A smile came over his scarred face and a snicker to his lips. Ah! _Mais oui_, could it be a coincidence that there were two men sticking their noses into _le colonel's _business at the same time? The yankee and Alain Le Grand - perhaps there was a connection between them! I will look into this _moi-même_, thought Guidreau. And if there is a connection, I will know. I, not _le colonel_. He wonders if he has chosen poorly in naming me to be leader after him. _Tiens_, I will show him who is worthy to be leader! I am worthy to be leader when he is gone, _oui_, and I am worthy to be leader now.

…

One night, to my horror, Artémus did what he had feared he would do. He began to talk in his sleep.

I did not know how long he had been muttering, for I was asleep as well. But the sudden sharp demanding cry of "Jim!" jarred me into immediate wakefulness. "Jim!" he cried again. "Jim! Where are you?"

"Shh!" I hissed at him, scrambling to his side and laying my hand over his mouth. Eyes closed, he batted the silencing hand away, then cried out again, "Jim!"

"Hush!" After my anger of the night when he had ordered me to do what I must to shut him up, I had not given a moment's thought to the matter again. And so now of course I did not know what I ought to do. Slap him? I did not wish to do that, but perhaps something lighter would work. And so I patted his cheeks, calling his name softly. "Artémus… Artémus…"

Again, eyes shut, he knocked my hand away. "Jim!"

_Tiens_, that was not working. What else had he said to do? Tip the bucket over him? But if he was due for the chills next, he would be sopping wet and I had not nearly enough rags to dry him. And the other suggestions, to crack him over the head with the walking stick or smother him in the blanket - no, no, these I would not do. So how else could I muffle his cries?

Muffle! The remembrance of how my shriek when _il signore _kissed me had been silenced by his mouth on mine gave me what I hoped would be a good idea. As Artémus continued to mutter and cry out, I bent over him and pressed my mouth to his.

His eyes flew open. A moment later, I was flat on my back, my wrists pinned to the pallet on either side of my head, his mad eyes glaring down at me as he demanded, "Who are you and what are you doing?"

I struggled, but he was too strong and too heavy for me; I was well and truly caught. On the other hand, he had stopped speaking of Jim, so I had, I thought, been successful in a way.

"I said, 'Who are you?' " he growled again. "And where is Jim?"

Ah. Or maybe not.

"I am Serafina," I told him, getting a bit tired of having to constantly introduce myself. I did not think it would be wise to ask him his name. Indeed, if he was asking for Jim, no doubt he was himself. I had never seen him so angry before though, nor so suspicious, and especially not toward me.

"What are you, some sort of pretty face sent to distract me? Is Jim in the next cell? And who do you work for, Loveless?"

"_Qui? Qui est-ce?" _I asked automatically. "Who is that?"

He looked at me, his eyes narrowing, his mind plainly at work. "You speak French." I nodded. "Cajun country then?" Another nod. "And you don't know Loveless. Unless you're lying." He regarded me for a long time, then asked again, "Where's Jim? And don't you try to flimflam me, girl, 'cause you're dealing with a master here!" His big hands tightened their grip on my wrists.

"You're hurting me!" It was a shock; Artémus, the real Artémus, was my friend. But this man…!

"I'll do more than that if you don't open up and talk," he promised. "Now spill! I want to know everything that's going on." And he squeezed my wrists harder.

"All right," I agreed. And I told him all, everything, starting with his assignment regarding _le colonel_, on through his capture and the beatings, my acquisition of the key, our plan for escape and the need to wait for him to heal enough to ride a horse, ending with his illness and the bouts of delirium. "And I suppose you have am… amne…"

"Amnesia?"

"_Oui_, that. You did before when you were delirious."

"Are you saying I'm delirious now?"

I nodded, and his hands crushed my wrists anew. "Cute story, sister. Pity it's a lie from beginning to end!"

I was stunned. He did not believe me? "But why would I not tell you the truth?" I said.

He laughed. "Sugar, there are ten thousand reasons for women to lie to men, and for you to tell me that I promised to get you out of here - well, that's high on the list. And you might as well cut that out right now, because it's not going to work on me."

"Cut what out?" I asked, baffled.

"The tears. Turn off the waterworks, darlin'; they don't cut any ice with me." His voice was cold, almost cruel, and so I was not surprised to discover that I was crying. I had not noticed at first, but I could feel the tears now, slipping out of the corners of my eyes, trailing down into my ears. I swallowed hard, willing them to stop, but they did not.

"I said stop it," he insisted.

I swallowed again. _"Je regrete," _I whispered. "I am trying." The crushing hopelessness of looking into his face above me and seeing no trace of _mon ami _made it almost impossible for me to put an end to the tears. If only this Artémus would go away and my own would come back! I turned my head and looked at the wall instead of at him. I could see his hand still, pinning down my wrist. It hurt, but more than the pain in my wrists was the pain in my heart that Artémus would treat me so. How I longed for either the chills or the fever to overtake him, _mon pauvre ami!_

"Where is Jim?" he demanded again.

I laughed. "_Tiens_, I wish he were here! But I do not know where he is. Somewhere out there, looking for you. That is what you told me."

Again he tightened his grip on my wrists. "You mean you're sticking to that story?"

I closed my eyes and shrugged. "_Bien sûr_, it is the only story I have."

"Don't lie to me!"

"I am not…!" Suddenly I knew what I should do, so I did it. I fainted.

Well, not in reality, of course. I merely feigned it, relaxing my entire being and letting my head loll.

"Hey!" he said. "All right, sister, that's not going to work on me either. Stop playing games!"

I did not stir.

"Stop it!" he demanded. He shook me, and I let myself roll with the motion. "C'mon, give it up. I'm onto you." Again he shook me, and again I flopped like a rag doll. There was a silence, then, "Girl? Hey… Hey, c'mon. Stop that." His hand vanished from one of my wrists as he lightly slapped my face.

The slap he got in return now that my hand was free was by no means light. He yelped, and I gave him a hard shove, then squirmed my way free.

"Chipmunk!" he protested. "What was that for?" Then, with a wary look, he added, "Or do I want to know?"

"I did not like who you were this time," I explained and hoped to leave it at that.

"Oh? What did I do, try to kiss you again?"

"Something like that," I responded with my eyes turned away.

"Yeah?" he said, looking like he wasn't sure if he should believe my answer. "Well… all right. You're not hurt, are you?"

"When would you ever hurt me?" I said. But as the chills hit him once more and I played Abishag for him with my head laid against his shoulder, I wondered at the him I had just met. Indeed, _would _he ever hurt me? Now I did not know.

…

Just outside the door, hiding and listening, a man smiled to himself, quietly chuckling. So, that was what Le Grand had been up to! And this partner - _oui_, just as Guidreau had suspected, the partner was undoubtedly the yankee who had been causing so much trouble. _Tiens_, thought Guidreau, _le colonel _will want to hear about this!

What a pity for him, then, the scar-faced man's thoughts ran on, that I shall instead keep this to myself and deal with matters my own way…


	17. Seven

**Seven ~~~**

By now Jim was sure that he had found and followed every road, track, path, and rabbit trail he could uncover throughout the entire bayou. He had come across many houses, but closer inspection had shown him no trace of the marauders and sadly none of Artie either. There had to be a hideout of some kind, he was sure of that, but he had not found it by searching. That left him one last option.

He returned to Artie's hotel room on the off-chance his partner had shown up there. Nope. He turned next to the _beignet _shop, only to see a crisscross of boards nailed up across the open doorway, along with a hand-lettered sign proclaiming:

**Fermée  
Pour  
Rénovation**

All right. There was still another way to do this. He mounted up and rode out to the Fillion place.

The girl was in the yard when Jim rode up. "Ah, _M'sieur _West!" she called brightly and hurried to open the gate for him. "_Ça marche? _It goes well?" she asked.

"In fact, Lizette," he told her as he dismounted his horse, "it's not going anywhere at all."

"Ah, _non!_" she interjected.

"And that's why I'm going to need your help."

"My… _my _help? _Tien_, what do you expect me to be able to do?"

"I need you to make a way for me to contact a guide to lead me through the bayou."

She drew back and stared at him with horror in her eyes. "What? _Non! Non_, that is what _M'sieur _Le Grand asked of me, and the guide took him away, and he did not return! The same will happen to you, _m'sieur!_"

"I know. That's what I'm counting on."

"Counting on?" She shook her head. "_Je ne comprends pas_."

"It's very simple, Lizette. I want to find Alain Le Grand. They took him away, so if I let them take me away as well, I'm betting they'll take me where they took him."

"But what if they kill you? What if they killed him?"

"Well, many have tried that over the years, and no one's succeeded yet," he said with a smile.

She looked at him and then away several times, thinking, then finally turned away from him entirely. "I cannot do this. I cannot send you to your death. Already I fear I have sent that _gentil M'sieur _Le Grand to his death. I do not want you weighing on my conscience as well."

His hand touched her arm and she turned back to face him. He smiled at her and oh! how handsome he was! How beautiful his eyes as he bent toward her.

And gathered her close.

And kissed her.

Oh, it was marvelous, being kissed by this man. Lizette happily melted into his embrace. She could have lived there forever, but forever ended all too soon. Jim smiled down at her with that small lazy confident smile of his and told her, "Go make the arrangements now."

What? Shocked, she said, "_Non! Non! Jamais! _Never!"

And then his arms were around her again as he kissed her once more. This time, realizing that he was only kissing her to gain her cooperation, she resisted at first. But she couldn't resist for long; the man was just too delicious, too appealing, too… too _James_. She melted into his embrace again.

"Now go make the arrangements."

She raised large and troubled eyes to search his face. At last she said, "I… I will miss you." She laid a hand on his cheek and kissed him gently. Then she turned away and set out to obey him and make the arrangements.

…

As the days went on, things became different. Artémus slept more, much more, and his spells of chills and fever were more spaced out. That was, I hoped, a good sign. Still, he continued to have the delirium, and continued to be various people and to treat me to various recitations of the figurative language.

He was a magician, the Great Artini, who found a number of coins in my ears. He was a Turk, Sheik Abu ibn Hassan, who told me a story about a sailor named Sinbad. He was a drunken fellow, Mickey Flynn, who was sweet enough, singing me songs and telling me jokes. For my part, however, I had put up with the drinking of _le colonel's _men all too often to find any charm in a drunkard.

Between and among those and other characters, I learned from his recitations that our little life is rounded with a sleep, and that one man in his time plays many parts, and that when the winter is past, the voice of the turtle is heard in our land. Oh yes, I certainly asked him to explain to me _that _one! I was astounded to be told that the turtle was a type of dove. I did not understand. If the voice was that of a bird and not of a turtle, then why not say straight out that it was a turtledove? Why be confusing? He only smiled at me and said again what a literal soul I am.

The figurative language. I do not understand.


End file.
